THE  SLAVIC  TRANSLATIONS 
BY  LEO  WIENER 


MAGDALEN 

BY  T-  S'  MACHAR 


MAGDALEN 

AUTHORIZED   TRANSLATION 
FROM  THE  BOHEMIAN  OF 

T'S'MACHAR 

BY  LEO  WIENER 

PROFESSOR  OF  SLAVIC  LANGUAGES  AND 

LITERATURES  AT  HARVARD 

UNIVERSITY 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

1916 


COPYRIGHT  1916  BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  IN  AMERICA 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

THE  Bohemians  have  been  the  torchbearers 
in  the  Slavic  revival  which  has  awakened  the 
dormant    national    consciousness    of    the    minor 
Slavic  peoples,  and  which  had  indirectly  brought 
Russian  literature  to  its   fullest  fruition.     This 

V 

task  was  accomplished  by  the  great  Cech  philolo- 
gists and  historians  of  the  first  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  but  the  Cechs  have  also  contrib- 
uted substantially  to  the  great  and  growing  Slavic 
literature,  which  bids  fair  to  occupy  the  foremost 
rank  in  the  near  future. 

Bohemia  is  particularly  rich  in  its  poetic  out- 
put.    Until   the    appearance   of   J.    S.    Machar, 

V 

Vrchlickjr,  the  Cech  Longfellow,  was  considered 
the  leading  poet,  even  as  he  was  the  most  volum- 
inous. Machar  himself,  who  was  born  at  Kolin 
in  1864  of  poor  artisans  and  for  the  last  twenty 
years  has  been  a  bank  official  at  Vienna,  began  his 


2034515 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

literary  career  in  Vrchlicky's  style,  but  he  showed 
from  the  very  start  a  strong  tendency  to  neglect 
mere  form  and  to  treat  reality  in  a  straightfor- 
ward and  sober  way,  hence  his  poems  lose  little  by 
being  rendered  in  prose  form.  In  his  earnestness 
of  purpose  he  is  not  unlike  Tolstoy,  from  whom 
he  differs  by  his  advocacy  of  a  life  full  of  vigor, 
and  not  of  asceticism.  With  Tolstoy,  however, 
he  shares  a  hatred  of  all  shams ;  hence,  though  an 
ardent  patriot,  he  despises  the  banality  of  the 
demagogues  and  of  political  charlatanism.  This 
attitude  is  expressed  most  trenchantly  in  his 
"  Tristium  Vindobona,"  considered  by  his  coun- 
trymen as  having  killed  jingoism  and  the  high- 
sounding  patriotic  phrase  in  Bohemia. 

In  1894*  appeared  his  "  Magdalen,"  in  which  he 
mercilessly  attacked  those  provincial  philistines 
who  would  block  the  fervent  endeavors  of  a  fallen 
woman  to  be  restored  to  a  life  of  decency.  Of  his 
later  poems  probably  the  most  remarkable  is 
"  Golgotha,"  in  which  he  glorifies  Christ,  as  he  ap- 
peared to  him  to  have  been  in  reality,  and  not  in 
St.  Paul's  philosophic  transmutation. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

The  pronunciation  of  the  Cech  names  should 
cause  no  difficulty.  The  stress  accent  is  always 
on  the  first  syllable.  The  vowels  have  the  Italian 
values,  those  with  an  accent  being  the  correspond- 
ing long  ones,  and  e  sounding  as  ye.  J  sounds  as 
y,  c  as  ts,  ch  as  Teh;  c,  s,  z,  r  are  respectively  eh, 
sh,  zh,  rzh.  Thus  Jiri  sounds  Yeer^-zheet  Machar 
is  Mah'-khar,  VrchUcJcfi  is  Virkh'-lits-kee,  etc. 

L.  W. 


MAGDALEN 


MY  reader!  You,  no  doubt,  know 
many  a  well-drawn  and  many  a  hid- 
eous picture  that  in  glowing  colors, —  in 
ruby,  blood,  gold,  jasper, —  paints  the  set- 
ting sun.  You  will  forgive  me  this  assump- 
tion, nay,  perchance,  will  laud  the  author  for 
saying  briefly:  The  sun  has  just  set  over 
Prague.  .  .  . 

It  is  Saturday,  in  the  month  of  May. 
The  scene  is  in  the  Fifth  Ward. 

The  sultry  day  for  the  first  time  draws  a 
deep  breath  after  the  sun's  decline.  Mois- 
ture is  borne  through  the  air ;  ill  odors,  grow- 
ing more  intense,  are  wafted  through 
the  short,  narrow,  crooked  streets.  The 
wretched  shops  of  the  pious  children  of 


10  MAGDALEN 

Israel  are  shut,  but  the  pulse  of  life  still 
beats  around  them  in  boisterous  measure. 
A  variegated  crowd  of  people  surges  here, 
talking,  laughing,  jesting:  laborers  who 
come  in  their  grimy  clothes  after  having 
received  their  pay;  soldiers  and  loiterers; 
factory  girls  with  yellow  faces,  their  hair 
combed  over  their  brows;  prattling  do- 
mestics vociferate  around  the  water  basin; 
women,  with  their  pale  babes  in  their  arms, 
are  standing  at  the  doors  of  the  houses,  con- 
versing in  shrill  voices ;  in  the  basement  tav- 
erns the  gaslight,  subdued  through  the  red 
curtains,  already  flickers,  and  here  and  there 
are  heard  the  sounds  of  the  accordion.  The 
pulse  of  life  is  beating  strong. 

Eight  o'clock.  The  bells  are  tolling  over 
Prague.  The  proud  harmonious  tones  fall 
upon  this  scene  of  animation.  A  sacred 
moment !  Over  this  extinct  sultry  day,  over 
this  sea  of  red  roofs,  over  this  varied  mass 
of  spires,  over  this  grey  that  is  flooding  the 
tangle  of  sweltering  streets, — over  all  that 


MAGDALEN  11 

is  there  in  motion,  over  its  empty  pleasure, 
its  sorrow,  pride,  misery,  passion,  hypocrisy 
and  love,  over  this  weak,  puny,  ephemeral 
human  "ego,"  the  hollow  brass  sends  forth 
into  the  vault  of  heaven  its  Ave  Maria! 

At  the  corner  of  two  crooked  streets  rises 
a  freshly  white-washed  house,  towering  by 
a  whole  story  above  the  red  roofs  of  its 
neighbors.  The  blinds  are  drawn  in  all  the 
windows;  a  dead  silence  is  everywhere. 
Only  above,  in  a  dormer  window,  are  seen 
a  white  head  and  two  folded,  sere  hands, 
those  of  an  old  woman  who,  praying,  looks 
up  to  the  ruddy  clouds.  A  beautiful  con- 
trast :  below, —  the  wild,  whirling,  untram- 
melled life;  here,  —  its  end.  The  white 
hair,  the  prayer,  and  .  .  . 

Like  some  sentimental  poet,  I  came  very 
near  spinning  out  a  beautiful  simile,  but  for- 
tunately the  old  woman,  blinded  by  the 
splendor  of  the  sky,  looked  down  upon  the 
whirling  life  below.  Her  kindly  old  eyes 
suddenly  flashed  with  surprise,  and  her  dry, 


12  MAGDALEN 

wizened  hands  unfolded  themselves  from 
their  attitude  of  prayer  and  smoothed  her 
hair, —  and  the  old  woman  disappeared 
from  the  window. 

Some  one  had  just  entered  the  house. 
With  sure  steps  he  walked  up  the  creaking 
staircase,  touched  the  bell  at  one  of  the 
doors,  stepped  in,  and  crossed  a  small  ante- 
chamber. There  stood  the  pious  woman  of 
the  dormer  window:  "Ah!"  and  she  gave 
him  her  hand.  He  pressed  it  with  the  tips 
of  his  fingers.  With  her  other  hand  the 
woman  opened  a  door,  and  she  began  to  tell 
him  things, —  a  senseless  chaos, —  but  her 
guest,  without  saying  a  word,  stepped  into 
the  opened  apartment,  though  it  was  merged 
in  darkness. 

"I  should  sooner  have  expected  death  to- 
day, than  you,"  proceeded  the  old  woman's 
hoarse  voice.  "How  many  weeks  have 
passed  since  you  last  honored  us  with  your 
visit?  Why,  'tis  half  a  year!  Just  dread- 
ful! Your  acquaintances  told  me  that  you 


MAGDALEN  13 

were  married!  I  only  laughed,  for  I  am  a 
doubting  Thomas!  He  and  marrying! 
Never,  said  I !" 

A  tall  waiter  lighted  the  three  large  chan- 
deliers, and  the  parlor,  with  its  gold-red  wall 
paper  and  its  multitude  of  small  marble 
tables,  was  disclosed  to  the  eye.  Chromos 
of  half-naked  female  figures  in  baroque 
frames  looked  down  from  the  walls.  A 
piano  stood  behind  a  drawn  portiere.  In 
the  air  was  a  strange  odor  of  wine,  tobacco, 
and  the  scent  of  unbraided  hair. 

My  hero  (my  reader  will  forgive  me  for 
dragging  him  into  parentheses,  but  these  are 
my  study,  where  I  will  converse  at  liberty 
with  my  reader  without  witnesses.  So,  this 
my  "hero"  is  not  a  hero  in  the  sense  of  those 
ancient  romanticists;  I  call  him  so  only  by 
habit,  before  announcing  his  name) ,  my  hero 
seated  himself  in  a  corner,  crossed  his  legs, 
placed  his  silk  hat  upon  the  table,  cast  his 
gloves  into  it,  and  smiled  at  the  old  woman 
who  sat  opposite  him. 


14  MAGDALEN 

"Well,  how  is  it  with  you?"  he  said,  wring- 
ing his  hands  so  that  they  cracked  in  their 
joints. 

"Everything  has  gone  as  usual.  .  .  . 
But  no,  something  has  happened:  my  Kata 
has  died!" 

"Ah,  when?" 

"Five  or  six  weeks  ago.  I  just  happened 
to  call  upon  her  at  the  hospital.  Poor  little 
creature!  Would  you  believe  it,  she  was 
but  sixteen?  She  was  so  loath  to  die! 
How  timidly  and  pitifully  her  eyes  looked 
at  me!  And  she  was  so  changed,  beyond 
recognition.  .  .  ."  Tiny  tears  glistened  on 
the  old  lady's  lashes. 

"Hem,  you  are  sentimental,  madam,  I  de- 
clare," and  the  guest  smiled. 

"That  moment  is  never  to  be  forgotten," 
added  the  madam. 

The  conversation  slowly  proceeded  from 
one  thing  to  another.  The  guest  made 
ironical  glosses,  and  the  old  lady,  whenever 
possible,  returned  to  the  broad  stream  of  her 


MAGDALEN  15 

feelings.  Then  the  parlor  brightened  up. 
There  entered  female  figures  in  gay,  fantas- 
tic raiments,  a  bold  glance  in  their  burning 
eyes,  their  alabaster  bosoms  uncovered,  their 
hair  exhaling  pungent  perfumes,  their  arms 
bare,  their  calves  filled  out, —  in  short,  these 
are  the  bankrupts  of  feeling,  who  in  this 
gambling-house  of  the  world  play  for  a  piece 
of  bread.  To-day  they  have  youth,  beauty, 
jests  and  smiles, —  to-morrow  another  card 
will  fall  for  them,  and  everything  is  forever 
lost.  .  .  . 

They  greeted  the  guest  with  a  mute  incli- 
nation of  their  heads,  while  he  scanned  them 
with  a  forced  and  cold  glance.  They 
lighted  their  cigarettes,  hummed  tunes, 
made  careless  jests, —  just  as  they  had  the 
day  before,  and  as,  perchance,  they  would 
again  on  the  morrow. 

"There,  that  slender  one  in  the  black 
dress,"  the  madam  whispered  to  the  guest. 
"I  take  the  liberty  of  recommending  her  to 
your  kind  attention." 


16  MAGDALEN 

But  that  slender  one  in  the  black  dress, 
which  daintily  draped  her  bosom,  was  the 
only  one  among  these  Venuses  of  whom  you 
might  have  said  that  she  reminded  you  some- 
how of  Marguerite:  her  face  was  fresh,  her 
blue  eyes  had  not  sunk  in  their  sockets,  her 
hair  was  beautifully  combed  over  her  fore- 
head. She  tried  to  smoke  a  cigarette,  but 
it  was  difficult  work,  as  the  smoke  choked 
her  and  she  coughed  and  laughed,  until  her 
small  teeth  shone  like  a  row  of  pearls. 

"Miss  Lucy !"  called  the  madam. 

She  came  and  bowed  to  the  guest  with 
graceful  playfulness.  She  seated  herself 
opposite  him,  looked  into  his  eyes,  and 
burst  out  laughing.  The  madam  went 
out. 

The  laughter  of  those  blue  eyes  shook 
every  nerve  of  my  hero:  his  ironical  apathy 
fell  from  him,  and  a  gentle  warmth  pervaded 
his  whole  soul.  Something  urged  him  on  to 
laugh  aloud  with  the  careless  laughter  of 
a  child,  to  joke  harmlessly,  and  then  again 


MAGDALEN  17 

to  speak  entertainingly. —  Oh,  that  witch- 
ery of  woman's  eyes! 

(My  reader,  pray,  listen!  The  psycholo- 
gist will  regard  my  weak  attempt  at  depict- 
ing the  characters  of  my  dramatis  personce 
in  general  as  a  kind  of  somersault, —  so  I 
will  announce  in  advance :  I  do  not  believe 
in  what  people  call  character.  My  view 
differs  from  that  of  the  best  philosophers, — 
I  see  in  character  a  little  matter,  a  little 
mysticism  and  mystery,  yet  it  is  fit  for  my 
discourse.  Our  "ego"  is  nothing  but  a  slave 
of  the  stomach,  the  weather,  and  the  nerves, 
and  it  generally  submits  to  another  "ego" 
of  our  neighbor,  if  that  be  stronger,  or  more 
inviting,  or  the  opposite  of  our  own  "ego." 
In  fact,  we  are  nothing  but  chameleons, 
though  I  do  confess  that  we  preserve  a  weak 
layer  of  our  elementary  color  which  gener- 
ally shines  through  the  mass  of  borrowed 
hues.  Or,  to  speak  in  the  language  of  the 
scientists, —  man  is  the  result  of  external 
forces,  and  the  soul  is  a  photographic  plate. 


18  MAGDALEN 

Magnetism, —  but  enough  of  grey  theories.) 
So  the  two  were  discoursing  quite  viva- 
ciously and  laughing. 

What  beautiful  themes  they  touched 
upon!  Whitsuntide  pilgrimages  and  our 
country  people,  fireworks  on  the  Moldau 
River,  the  gay  life  in  the  streets,  and  so  forth, 
and  so  forth, —  themes  that  have  interested 
many  people,  even  of  finer  mettle  than  my 
hero. 

The  parlor  grew  more  noisy.  The  guests 
sat  at  the  tables  drinking  wine  and  soda- 
water.  Here,  near  the  table  of  my  hero, 
Mr.  Plojhar  knitted  his  beautiful  brow  as 
he  started  his  third  cigarette,  and  then  some- 
how grew  pale.  There  Mr.  Broucek  re- 
lated his  endless  travels,  until  a  lithesome 
maiden  closed  his  lips  with  her  hand;  there 
Verunsky,  a  dissipated  sculptor,  bent  his 
head  upon  the  table,  while  his  friend,  la  Vie, 
kept  on  dinning  into  his  ears  poisonous 
maxims.  Farther  away  Mr.  Klement  (I 
do  not  know  his  surname)  sat  alone  in  a  cor- 


MAGDALEN  19 

ner  writing  a  sentimental  letter  (I  think  the 
fourth)  to  his  friend  on  the  subject  of  his 
platonic  love,  all  the  time  stealthily  eyeing 
a  seductive  brunette.  In  another  place 

V 

Bohdan,  a  landed  proprietor  from  Sumava, 
who  had  had  bad  luck  with  his  country- 
women, threw  himself  at  once  upon  the  slip- 
pery path  of  life,  and  to  all  appearances  was 
better  off  here:  with  one  arm  he  embraced 
the  neck  of  a  black-eyed  bayadere,  while 
with  the  other  he  smilingly  carried  a  glass  to 
her  lips.  There  again  gloomy  Ronovsky 
made  a  desperate  attempt  to  rival  Onyegin's 
frosty  calm. 

(I  have  a  long  poem  on  Ronovsky,  I  think 
some  ten  thousand  verses,  all  in  rhyme,  put 
away  in  my  desk.  Like  all  poets  I  at  one 
time  wrote  a  Faust,  but  a  higher  Providence 
has  watched  over  him:  my  Ronovsky  is  for- 
ever buried  in  my  desk,  labelled:  antiqua.) 

A  few  more  men,  some  older,  others 
younger,  whom  I  do  not  care  to  mention 
specially,  were  passing  their  time  with  the 


20  MAGDALEN 

maidens.  The  air  was  soon  filled  with 
smoke,  and  became  stifling  with  the  hot 
breaths  of  people,  but  our  acquaintances 
peacefully  continued  their  conversation. 

"So  you  have  been  in  Italy?  I  envy  you. 
I  should  gladly  give  half  of  my  life  for  half 
a  year  there." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  it  is  something  grand,  and  it  can- 
not be  easily  expressed  in  words.  I  feel  a 
breath  of  it  in  the  poem:  'Kennst  du  das 
Land3.  .  ." 

"Dreams,  dreams!  It  is  but  a  poetic  tra- 
dition. Just  listen,  I  pray,  to  my  impres- 
sions: On  a  hired  donkey  I  crossed  the 
Apennines.  Well,  there  was  Florence,  the 
blue  Arno,  blue  skies,  immense  olive  groves, 
—  but  over  everything  lay  the  traces  of  mil- 
lions of  stupid  eyes,  open  mouths,  and  echoes 
of  Baedeker  quotations." 

Just  then  Mr.  Ploj  bar's  contemptuous, 
indignant  look  reached  my  hero  from  the 
neighboring  table. 


MAGDALEN  21 

"Rome,"  he  continued,  "is  indeed  a  thing 
of  beauty.  I  have  run  through  the  churches, 
have  taken  in  the  art  collections,  have 
crawled  through  every  catacomb,  have  seen 
a  couple  of  cardinals,  the  Pope,  and  in  the 
Parliament  have  witnessed  a  fine  sally  of 
the  Opposition,  have  wearied  myself  in 
walking  through  the  Campagna,  have 
cursed  its  stage-coaches,  its  heat,  its  flies,  the 
radishes,  and  the  garlic, —  the  terror  of  the 
Italian  cuisine, —  suddenly  one's  breast  is 
torn  by  a  painful  longing  for  one's  smoky 
Prague,  and  the  fastest  express  that  takes 
one  north  seems  to  one  to  be  moving  at  a 
snail's  pace.  .  .  ." 

Here  the  sharp,  whirling  sounds  from  the 
piano  interrupted  my  hero.  They  were 
playing  a  waltz. 

The  wave  of  tones  brought  new  life  to 
the  company.  One  of  the  maidens  marked 
time  with  her  foot,  another  clapped  her 
hands;  a  young  fellow  with  a  big  shock  of 
hair  put  his  arm  around  the  waist  of  a  slen- 


22  MAGDALEN 

der  blonde,  and  they  danced  between  the 
tables. 

As  if  in  a  dream,  Lucy  sang  in  a  soft 
soprano  voice : 

"Only  once  we  live  down  here: 
Beauty,  youth  soon  disappear ; 
Age  runs  riot  with  our  face, 
Of  our  youth  leaves  not  a  trace." 

She  bent  her  head.  Suddenly  sadness 
flashed  in  her  eyes,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
She  stroked  her  forehead  with  her  open 
hand.  She  threw  her  head  back,  as  if  in 
defiance,  and  laughed:  "Well,  what  else?" 

Reader,  do  not  judge  from  the  characters 
and  from  the  surroundings  that  the  author 
of  this  poem  is  a  worldly  or  licentious  man, 
rebelling  against  the  order  of  things,  an 
immoral,  worthless  cynic,  who  wishes  to  hurl 
poesy  from  its  pure  azure  heights  into  the 
mire  of  orgies.  No,  he  is  a  common  Philis- 
tine, a  slave  of  his  office,  a  citizen  who  pays 
his  taxes  and  is  peaceably  inclined ;  who  eats 


MAGDALEN  23 

and  drinks  in  measure ;  who  at  supper  reads 
the  editorials  and  the  news  in  the  daily 
paper,  for  which,  as  is  proper,  he  has  paid 
his  subscription  in  advance;  who  at  times 
borrows  a  book  that  has  been  favorably 
reviewed,  and,  reading  it,  is  glad  if  on  the 
last  page  everything  ends  with  a  marriage; 
who  retires  after  ten  o'clock  and  sleeps  a 
peaceful,  restful  sleep  until  half  past 
seven.  .  .  .  The  verses,  which  he  has 
written  in  leisure  hours,  were  at  first  a  little 
strange,  yet  sounded  harmonious  and  con- 
tained an  approved  moral, —  so  he  is  proba- 
bly not  far  from  right  when  he  thinks  that 
after  his  demise  he  will  be  pleasantly  remem- 
bered by  his  acquaintances.  Such,  in  real- 
ity, is  the  author. 

Furthermore,  he  makes  the  solemn  prom- 
ise that  from  this  place  we  shall  issue  among 
decent  people,  that  he  will  describe  peaceful 
life,  christenings,  weddings,  the  conversa- 
tions of  our  good  neighbors, —  and  so  he 


24  MAGDALEN 

hopes  that  on  the  last  page  of  his  book  he 
will  bid  his  reader  good-bye  in  the  best  of 
friendship.  .  .  . 

".  .  .  Tell  me,  how  could  you  with  such 
a  pure  soul,  with  those  clear  eyes  of  yours 
have  come  to  this  bagnio?  Did  not  the 
world  have  some  other  place  for  you?" 

"Oh,  Lord,"  she  smiled,  "you  are  not  the 
first  man  to  ask  me  this.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  get  here, —  before  one  knows  how.  .  .  . 
A  pretty  face  and  a  little  misfortune, —  and 
the  world  is  at  once  as  an  inclined  plane: 
one  step, —  and  you  are  below.  However, 
I  often  think  that  there  is  probably  an  eter- 
nal law  that  for  some  there  is  no  other  place 
than  here  below  .  .  .  below.  ..." 

"With  what  enviable  calm  you  look  upon 
your  life!"  he  said,  with  some  irony. 
"What,  is  there  not  a  moment  in  this  impure 
atmosphere  when  you  feel  yourself  choking 
terribly?  Do  you  ever  think  of  that?  Do 
you  ever  think  of  the  future?" 


MAGDALEN  25 

"What  good  would  it  do?  How  will  it 
help  me?  No,  I  do  not  think,  and  there  is 
no  time  for  such  foolishness  as  thinking." 

My  hero  was  in  a  strange  state.  A  cer- 
tain solemn  moral  rectitude  took  possession 
of  him.  Every  word  which  he  spoke  hov- 
ered for  a  while  in  his  soul.  He  secretly 
admired  himself,  and  somehow  valued  him- 
self more  highly  on  account  of  the  wealth 
of  morality  which  was  suddenly  manifested 
within  him.  He  was,  however,  unpleas- 
antly irritated  by  the  calm  of  the  girl.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  see  her  sad,  and  in 
tears ;  would  have  wished  to  hear  some  story 
colored  with  romance;  would  have  liked  to 
see  her  press  her  hands  to  her  brow  in 
despair, —  but  no.  She  sat  opposite  him  at 
a  small  table  in  her  narrow  room,  her  hands 
resting  in  her  lap,  her  blue  eyes,  two  brilliant 
points  beaming  in  the  pupils,  looking  into 
the  flame  of  the  lamp. 

From  below  came  the  sounds  of  the  piano, 
laughter  and  trampling  of  feet,  but  softly 


26  MAGDALEN 

and  subdued,  as  if  it  were  some  echo  from 
far,  far  away.  .  .  . 

"Future!  Why  should  we  think  of  some- 
thing that  is  not  yet?"  she  said  calmly. 

"No,  you  lack  the  proper  understanding 
of  this  life,"  he  continued  excitedly,  "and 
what  a  fairy  thing  this  life  is !  The  sun,  the 
stars,  the  fragrance  of  spring, —  just  think! 
Your  dead  eyes  are  lying  somewhere  down 
below  in  a  coffin,  and  above,  everything 
keeps  growing,  shining,  blooming, —  do  you 
not  feel  a  terrible,  endless  sorrow?  And 
your  life.  ...  I  swear  to  you,  I  would 
rather  see  you  in  that  coffin  than  here. 
How  will  it  all  end?  Just  as  with  Kata,  of 
whom  your  madam  has  been  telling  me  to- 
day? Or  will  you  grow  old  here  in  misery, 
slime,  and  shame?"  My  hero  drew  a  deep 
breath,  partly  from  moral  excitement, 
partly  from  a  feeling  of  pity. 

"No,  no,  no,  it  will  be  different.  It  must 
be." 

"How?" 


MAGDALEN  27 

"I  do  not  know.  I  shan't  grow  old.  I 
shall  go  away  before  that." 

"You  will  go  away?  Where,  how?  It  is 
too  ridiculous !  You  are  talking  at  random ! 
Tell  me.  .  .  ." 

"I  will.  Listen.  I  have  attacks  of  vir- 
tue, I  know  not  why, —  moments,  when  sud- 
denly everything  overpowers  me,  my  youth, 
my  life  of  to-day,  my  life  of  to-morrow,  and 
I  feel  only  an  infinite  pity  for  myself,  and 
nothing  else.  And  sometimes  I  think  that 
some  day  I  must,  at  such  a  moment,  leave 
this  house,  must  fly  like  an  arrow  through 
the  muddy  street  and  down  to  the  water. 
.  .  .  That's  the  stronghold  from  which  I 
look  at  my  life,  and  at  the  future.  .  .  . 
But  the  terror  that  freezes  every  nerve  dur- 
ing such  consolation!  .  .  .  The  river  is 
terrible,  and  greenish,  and  cold,  ugh  .  .  ." 
and  a  chill  shook  her  body,  her  white  hand 
fell  upon  the  table,  and  the  slender  fingers 
tapped  it  nervously. 

My  hero,  a  man  fond  of  complete  effects 


28  MAGDALEN 

(we  are  all  moderns),  felt  that  something 
was  lacking,  as  he  beheld  that  attitude  of  the 
fair  girl.  'Tis  true,  he  felt  a  sympathetic 
pity,  but  that  sympathy  was  only  hunger 
(do  you  know,  my  reader,  that  the  suffer- 
ings and  sorrows  of  others  are  soothing  to 
our  nerves?)  and  he  was  the  more  hungry, 
since  she  had  permitted  him  to  taste  a  piece 
of  her  suffering  soul.  He  wanted  to  have 
all  of  her,  he  again  asked  for  her  past,  and 
he  asked  it  in  a  sympathetic  and  subdued 
voice,  looking  all  the  time  earnestly  into  her 
eyes. 

She  spoke  softly,  in  short,  abrupt  sen- 
tences. 

Her  father  had  been  a  teacher  in  a  coun- 
try town.  Her  mother  had  died  young. 
Lucy  grew  up  by  herself,  without  guidance 
or  surveillance.  Her  father  began  to  dissi- 
pate. He  played  at  cards  through  whole 
nights,  drank,  and  gave  himself  up  to  de- 
bauches. She,  in  the  meantime,  at  home, 
read  anything  that  fell  into  her  hands. 


MAGDALEN  29 

While  still  young  she  allowed  herself  to 
be  misled, —  not  from  love  or  passion,  but 
simply  from  curiosity.  Then  her  father  was 
discharged.  They  went  to  Prague.  Here 
she  became  a  governess  to  two  children  of  a 
rich  townsman.  Her  master  was  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  her  mistress  pursued  her  at 
every  step  with  groundless  jealousy. 

Her  father  took  every  penny  from  her, 
all  the  time  complaining  that  it  was  too 
little.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  father!  In  all  her  life 
she  had  not  heard  one  word  of  love  from  his 
lips.  She  held  her  mother  in  pious  memory, 
and  did  not  believe  in  the  love  of  fathers.  In 
three  months  that  house  was  a  veritable  hell 
to  her.  She  left.  Her  father  found  her  a 
place  as  a  saleswoman  in  a  shop.  A  new 
hell.  She  did  not  manage  to  earn  sufficient 
wages  there.  Her  companions  tormented 
her  with  biting  remarks.  Her  employer 
scolded  her  with  coarse  words.  She  soon 
left  the  place. 

Her  father  held  a  lengthy  discourse  with 


30  MAGDALEN 

her  upon  the  whole  misery  of  life  and  upon 
so-called  virtue  which,  he  said,  was  but  a 
word  with  women;  then  he  hinted  to  her 
that  she  should  walk  upon  another  road. 
So  she  did.  She  was  now  living  better  than 
in  that  other  world :  her  father  was  satisfied, 
the  old  madam  loved  her, —  what  else  could 
she  wish?  Of  course,  she  understood  the 
motives  of  the  madam's  love,  but  she  ac- 
cepted it  gratefully,  for  love  had,  indeed, 
been  a  rare  thing  in  her  life.  My  hero  was 
satisfied.  With  his  right  hand  he  drummed 
upon  the  table,  with  his  left  he  supported 
his  chin.  They  both  remained  silent  for 
quite  a  while.  Finally  he  arose.  He 
pressed  her  hand  and  dryly  remarked: 

"It  will  be  well,  if  to-day  I  leave  you 
thus.  .  .  ." 

He  went. 

Reader,  I  see  you  looking  with  misgivings 
at  the  author  of  these  lines!  In  fact,  I  am 
telling  you  of  this  hero,  drag  out  hundreds 


MAGDALEN  31 

of  verses  on  him,  analyze  his  soul  for  you, — 
and  yet,  contrary  to  all  proprieties,  I  have 
forgotten  to  describe  him  or  at  least  to  intro- 
duce him!  You  have  probably  said  ten 
times:  behold,  the  older  generation  is  right 
when  it  says  that  the  younger  is  slovenly  in 
everything!  Reader,  I  ask  you  in  all 
earnestness,  recall  all  the  books  that  you 
have  read,  recall  all  the  descriptions  of 
people,  which  authors  have  given  with  praise- 
worthy minuteness!  Your  word  of  honor, 
tell  me:  are  you  able  to  reproduce  a  single 
one  of  them?  I  am  not. 

If  I  told  you  that  my  hero  had  scanty 
hair,  as  is  the  case  with  modern  youths,  a 
pointed  moustache,  dark  eyes  with  nothing 
in  them  to  attract  you,  his  nose  not  more 
characteristic,  a  swarthy  face,  a  not  more 
distinctive  figure,  long  nails  on  short  fingers, 
that  he  was  fashionably  dressed, —  tell  me, 
would  you  know  him  any  better?  Then 
that  is  superfluous.  His  given  name  was 
Jifi. 


32  MAGDALEN 

That  name  is  not  my  poetic  license, 
though  it  may  seem  to  be  so:  we  have  not  a 
poem,  romance,  sketch,  or  novel,  in  which 
the  hero's  name  is  not  "Jiff."  His  deceased 
father, —  he  had  a  large  estate,  extensive 
fields,  and  a  mill  in  the  country,  two  leagues 
from  Prague, —  was  a  reader  of  Bohemian 
history,  and  with  his  whole  soul  loved  our 
Podebrad,1 — so  his  son  had  to  be  called 
Jiff. 

He  was  early  sent  to  school.  The  kind 
eyes  of  an  aunt  watched  over  him;  the  old 
widow  was  childless  and  soon  became  the 
slave  of  the  small  despot.  He  passed  the 
Gymnasium  with  honors,  drank  deeply  from 
the  ancient  well  of  the  eternally  fresh 
classics,  as  we  have  drunk;  and  there  were 
permanent  traces  of  it  in  his  soul:  he  knew 
that  Cassar  was  a  great  Roman  with  a  big 
bald  head,  and  that,  alas!  he  had  written 
dreadfully  insipid  memoirs;  that  Horace 

JJiff    (George)    of  PodSbrad,   born   1420,   was   the   last 
and  most  famous  of  Bohemia's  native  kings  (1458-1471). 


MAGDALEN  33 

had  kept  his  poems  for  nine  years  in  his  desk 
(Jiff,  by  the  way,  thought  they  ought  to 
have  remained  there  forever) ;  that  Lucullus 
was  sweet-tongued ;  that  Cicero  had  spoken 
a  great  deal.  The  refined  youth  had  with 
difficulty  carried  away  from  the  Greek 
world  an  equally  valuable  store  of  informa- 
tion. Besides,  he  remembered  the  jokes 
and  anecdotes  about  all  the  funny  profes- 
sors,—  in  short,  he  brought  as  much  from 
school  into  life  as  we  once  did.  .  .  . 

Then  he  studied  law,  during  which  time 
he  danced  at  all  the  great  balls,  talked  in 
students'  circles,  dragged  the  carriages  of 
famous  singers,  and  in  the  morning  thun- 
dered with  his  companions  the  national  air 
in  the  sleeping  streets,  proudly  wearing  the 
Panslavic  tricolor  under  his  laced  coat. 

He  had  read  a  little.  He  remembered 
best  such  passages  as  he  could  use  to  inter- 
lard his  talk  with  speeches.  Finally  he  said 
forever  "vale"  to  his  studies  and  entered 
life.  Being  rich,  he  became  the  master  of 


34  MAGDALEN 

his  time.  He  rose  late,  and  cursed  the  tire- 
some forenoons  which  he  passed  in  the  de- 
serted Pffkopi.  After  dinner  he  sat  with 
his  companions  in  the  coffeehouse,  where 
jokes,  jests,  anecdotes  were  told,  and  the 
daily  papers  run  over,  and  then  he  went  back 
to  the  Prikopi. 

Here  Jif i  was  in  his  element.  A  chain  of 
lamps  flickered  in  the  darkness.  Feminine 
eyes  glistened  from  behind  curtains.  The 
rustling  of  dresses,  the  conversation,  the 
clatter  of  steps,  the  passing  of  various  forms 
gave  him  a  pleasant  thrill.  He  exchanged 
greetings  with  his  feminine  friends.  Here 
and  there  he  dropped  a  few  words  in  pass- 
ing: a  new  debauch,  a  new  scandal,  some- 
times a  new  toilet.  .  .  . 

Then,  towards  seven,  he  visited  the  thea- 
tre,—  not  from  any  predilection,  but  be- 
cause some  of  his  friends  went  there,  and  be- 
cause the  next  day  he  could  wittily  criticise 
the  play  and  the  actors.  The  ballet,  in  par- 
ticular, was  honored  by  his  hearty  applause. 


MAGDALEN  35 

A  year  before,  his  father  had  died.  He 
had  buried  him  with  ostentatious  pomp  (five 
priests,  fine  music,  all  kinds  of  societies), — 
at  once  ordered  for  the  tomb  a  marble  monu- 
ment with  a  gilt  inscription,  jumped  into  a 
coach,  and  had  himself  driven  back  to 
Prague.  .  .  . 

So  he  walked  through  the  damp  night. 
The  gaslight  merged  upon  the  wet  sidewalk 
with  the  pale  reflection  of  the  moon.  The 
rows  of  houses  were  hid  in  a  grey  darkness. 
The  windowpanes  glistened  with  a  feeble 
light.  Nearby  rattled  a  coach,  dully  re- 
sounding in  the  empty  street;  a  citizen, 
stepping  heavily  on  the  sidewalk,  muttered 
something  to  himself ;  a  woman  rushed  by  in 
the  shadow  of  the  walls. 

Jiff  strolled  on  with  bent  head.  He  was 
not  meditating.  He  saw  there  in  the  room 
the  slender  maiden  looking  into  the  lamp 
light.  Her  lips  said,  "There  is  not  time  for 
such  a  foolish  thing  as  thinking."  Jifi 


36  MAGDALEN 

softly  and  unconsciously  repeated  these 
words. 

Suddenly  a  crowd  of  persons  crying,  bel- 
lowing, scolding,  rushed  out  of  a  small  inn 
in  front  of  him.  In  the  stream  of  light 
which  burst  forth  from  the  open  door 
gleamed  heavy  fists;  laughter  resounded, — 
they  were  beating  some  one.  Then  the  light 
and  the  disturbance  disappeared,  and  from 
the  interior  of  the  inn  were  borne  the  dead- 
ened sounds  of  singing  and  the  wailing  of 
an  accordion. 

From  the  dark  pavement  arose  the  figure 
of  a  man,  who  kept  on  cursing:  "Mob! 
Rascals!  Rascals!  Scoundrels!  I  a  cheat 
at  cards!  .  .  .  You,  sir,"  turning  to  Jifi, 
"you  know  yourself  how  easily  a  card  will 
fall  from  your  hands  upon  the  ground! 
Serves  me  right,  serves  me  right!  Why  do 
I,  an  educated  man,  have  anything  to  do 
with  such  scoundrels!"  He  walked  by  the 
side  of  Jifi. 

"There  you  have  our  people!    What  a 


MAGDALEN  37 

race  we  are!  Eh?  A  cancer  which  de- 
stroys us  nationally  and  politically, — no 
foundation  .  .  ."  he  coughed.  "I  know 
the  people.  ...  I,  sir,  have  been  a  teacher 
.  .  .  you  are  surprised?  I  now  no  longer 
wonder  .  .  .  the  product  of  circumstances 
and  of  the  times  .  .  .  thus  does  fate  hurl  a 
man  down.  .  .  .  'Tis  my  good  luck,  sir, 
that  I  have  a  daughter.  ...  A  good  child 
.  .  .  she  is  the  Antigone  of  my  misery.  .  .  . 
No  doubt,  sir,  your  heart  is  in  the  right  spot, 
and  you  sympathize  with  me, —  I  thank  you. 
Permit  me  to  make  you  acquainted  with  my 
daughter, —  there  in  that  house, —  don't  be 
surprised." 

Jiff  quickened  his  steps,  and  he  at  once 
turned  around  the  corner  of  the  first  street. 
He  shook  himself,  as  if  a  spray  of  mud  had 
fallen  upon  him. 

In  some  tower  a  clock  droned  out  the 
hours  in  even  measure.  ...  At  the  distant 
railroad  station  a  locomotive  whistled  .  .  t 
Again  quiet  .  .  .  quiet.  .  .  . 


38  MAGDALEN 

"The  daughter  a  prostitute,  her  father  a 
scoundrel  of  the  worst  type, —  to-day  I  have 
had  the  honor  of  making  the  acquaintance 
of  a  charming  family  ..."  Jifi  said  iron- 
ically to  himself,  but  immediately  came  the 
head  with  the  unbraided  hair,  and  those  eyes, 
those  pure  eyes  looked  long  at  him  with  an 
unspeakable  reproach. 


II 

READER,  I  warn  you  against  psycho- 
logical authors !  Do  not  believe  in  the 
logical  sequence  of  thoughts  which,  they  say, 
manifests  itself  in  the  souls  of  heroes  and 
heroines.  Do  not  believe  in  their  long-spun 
monologues,  nor  in  the  reminiscences  which 
are  drawn  out  in  chainlike  order  from  souls 
stirred  by  dreams, —  those  are  old,  well- 
known  nets  which  the  sly  author,  following 
the  good  examples  of  others,  casts  for  your 
unwary  faith:  he  spreads  them  out,  rubs  his 
hands  in  glee,  and  whispers  softly:  "Only 
read,  and  you  will  be  mine." 

Our  soul  .  .  .  just  look  into  it:  it  is  as 
though  you  saw  the  surface  of  the  water. 
Upon  it  is  beautifully  reflected  the  azure  of 
the  skies,  the  white  cloud,  the  splendor  of  the 
sun,  the  ruddy  west,  the  bird  that  flits  some- 

39 


40  MAGDALEN 

where  into  the  distance,  the  tree  that  leans 
over  it.  A  soft  breeze  gently  ripples  it,  but 
the  raging  storm  destroys  that  pure  mirror, 
and  you  see  the  dark  waves  towering  and 
driving  each  other,  you  hear  their  despairing 
disconsolate  melody, —  even  thus  we  know 
our  soul  to  be. 

Below,  somewhere  in  the  depth,  a  strange 
world  is  hidden  from  your  view.  There 
may  be  there  an  abyss,  sand,  rocks,  a  coral 
reef,  nacre,  whirlpools,  strange  creatures, — 
there  is  something  within  you  that  you  know 
not  of.  ...  Only  rarely,  during  quiet 
sleep,  do  you  for  a  moment  look  into  its 
mysterious  depth.  Sometimes  a  mighty 
storm  throws  up  upon  the  shore  some  tiny 
shells,  or  some  monstrous  thing. 

Our  thoughts  are  nothing  more  than 
silvery  fishes,  daughters  of  the  deep,  which 
we  see  for  a  moment  leisurely  swimming  in 
masses  near  the  sunlit  surface.  Here  and 
there  one  will  flash  like  a  silver  coin  in  the 
air,  will  flash  and  disappear.  .  .  .  Where 


MAGDALEN  41 

are  here  the  logical  steps?  Why  did  it  flash 
by,  why  at  that  particular  moment? 
Whence  did  it  come,  and  whither  does  it 
swim?  .  .  . 

My  reader,  I  warn  you  against  psycho- 
logical authors! 

Nine  o'clock.  Jifi  raised  his  head  a  little 
from  his  white  feather  bed,  and  looked  with 
a  sleepy  eye  at  the  green  shade,  through 
which  the  thin  sunbeams  burst  into  the  room 
like  rods  of  gold.  He  glanced  at  .the  cage 
where  a  canary  was  just  then  dipping  its 
bushy  head  into  its  bathtub.  Then  he 
yawned  loudly  and  looked  at  the  ceiling,  and 
at  the  lamp,  around  which  tiny  flies  were 
whirling  and  softly  buzzing. 

Suddenly  there  flashed  through  his  brain 
this  picture,  just  this  picture:  he  saw  the 
maiden  with  unbraided  blonde  hair  looking 
into  the  lamplight:  "I  do  not  think,  and 
there  is  no  time  for  such  foolishness  as  think- 
ing." The  picture  disappeared. 

Another  scene.     The  dissolute  old  man 


42  MAGDALEN 

approached  him  with  wavering  step:  "She 
is  my  Antigone,"  said  he.  A  weak  smile 
twitched  Jifi's  lips.  He  stretched  himself 
and  placed  his  arms  under  his  head.  .  .  . 

Then  he  saw  a  bit  of  Italy :  a  golden  coun- 
try, burnt  by  the  sun.  The  air  in  mo- 
tion. The  Apennines.  Rocks  everywhere. 
Veined  stones  all  around  him.  The  view 
was  open  only  in  one  direction :  there,  tower- 
ing sharply  against  the  azure  sky,  a  cy- 
press stood  out, —  black,  sad,  disconso- 
late. .  .  . 

That  flashed  by.  ...  "Rather  would  I 
see  you  lying  dead  in  a  coffin,  than  here 
alive,"  thus  his  own  words  now  were  dinning 
in  his  soul,  and  he  kept  repeating  them  to 
the  slender  maiden  who  drooped  her  head  to 
one  side. 

"Was  I  not  a  fool  last  night?  Did  not 
the  girl  secretly  laugh  at  my  words?"  the 
thought  suddenly  passed  through  his  brain. 
And  thus  through  his  soul  flashed  scenes, 
pictures  and  words  without  logic  or  connec- 


MAGDALEN  43 

tion,  like  silvery  fishes  that  gleam  near  the 
calm  surface  of  the  sunlit  waters.  .  .  . 

Some  one  knocked  softly  at  the  door. 

"Aunty?" 

Into  the  room  stepped  a  small,  wizened, 
yellow-faced  old  woman,  in  a  white  cap,  with 
pale-blue,  kindly  eyes,  her  sere  lips  mutter- 
ing a  "Good  morning."  She  placed  a  tray 
with  coffee  upon  a  small  table  near  the  bed, 
looked  lovingly  at  the  disheveled  head  upon 
the  pillows,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Well,  Aunty,"  began  Jifi,  "how  did  you 
rest?  What  is  the  news?  Well,  how  are 
your  poor  people?"  he  asked  in  a  careless 
manner,  as  he  drank  his  coffee. 

"I  dreamt  of  the  country  and  of  your 
father, —  a  mixed-up  dream.  I  really  do 
not  understand  what  it  all  comes  from.  .  .  . 
My  poor?  I  sent  yesterday  a  few  rags  to 
the  mason's  wife  nearby.  That  woman  has 
five  children.  Her  husband  was  killed  a 
month  ago  while  at  work.  ...  So  I  have 
now  five  families  upon  my  hands.  .  .  ." 


44  MAGDALEN 

"I  see,"  smiled  Jiff,  "the  whole  Ward  will 
soon  be  depending  upon  you.  You  will 
have  more  orders  than  the  best  tailor  in 
Prague.  Your  whole  house  will  be  a  small 
store  for  children's  clothing!" 

"Laugh  as  much  as  you  please !  I  would 
not  mind  that.  If  only  my  eyes  would  serve 
me  better.  .  .  .  O  Lord,  that  is  my 
pleasure,  my  amusement.  Jificek,1  I  just 
wanted  to  ask  you  what  we  are  to  do  this 
year  about  going  into  the  country?  When 
shall  we  leave?  It  is  already  hot,  and  half 
of  Prague  is  already  away." 

"Foolish  woman,  what  is  it  that  drives  you 
out  into  the  country  ?  A  fine  life  it  is !  To 
sit  in  a  room,  where  through  the  windows 
you  may  smell  manure.  At  night  the  frogs 
croak  you  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  there  is 
the  cock.  No  end  of  flies  everywhere. 
And  then  the  gossips  of  the  best  local 
society,  of  Mrs.  Judge,  Mrs.  Taxcollector, 
Mrs.  Doctor.  And  those  homely,  awkward 

i  Diminutive  of  Jiff  (George). 


MAGDALEN  45 

maidens,  with  their  tiny  brains.  .  .  .  Well, 
if  you  want  to,  go," 

"No,  Jiricek,  don't  be  angry,  I  shan't  go. 
I  meant  it  for  your  own  good.  You  look 
bilious,  and  you  are  thin.  Believe  me,  Italy 
did  not  do  you  any  good." 

"Oh,  leave  me  alone  with  your  care  of 
me!  Thin!  Do  you  expect  me  always  to 
be  well,  until  I  give  up  the  ghost?" 

"My  Jiricek."  His  aunt  wrung  her 
hands,  and  two  large  tears  glistened  in  her 
dim  eyes.  She  shook  her  head  and  went 
out. 

This  nettled  Jifi  a  little.  Thus  fre- 
quently ended  their  conversations.  He  felt 
pity  for  the  good  old  soul,  and  often  a  kindly 
word  stood  on  his  lips,  but  was  choked  in  his 
throat  by  some  customary  inconsiderateness. 
Perchance  it  was  the  fear  lest  he  should  sud- 
denly find  himself  in  a  ridiculous,  stupid 
attitude  of  sentimentality. 

So  he  waved  his  hand,  arose,  and  washed 
himself,  dressed  himself,  combed  his  hair  for 


46  MAGDALEN 

a  long  time,  curled  his  mustache,  poured 
some  perfume  upon  his  shirt  front,  handker- 
chief, and  coat,  rapidly  surveyed  himself  in 
the  mirror,  pulled  on  his  yellow  gloves,  and 
went  out,  whistling  the  march  from  Faust. 

The  day  dragged  on  painfully,  endlessly, 
and  he  waited  for  the  evening.  As  if  at- 
tracted by  some  magnetic  power,  he  has- 
tened at  twilight  to  the  house  in  the  Fifth 
Ward. 

(Enough.  The  reader  will  permit  me  to 
become  a  dry,  businesslike,  precise  reporter. 
I  have  reasons  for  it.  Many  people,  honest, 
respectable  people,  pastors  of  pious  souls, 
virtuous  ladies,  will  perhaps  bid  farewell  to 
the  author  and  this,  his  story.  I  should  not 
like  that,  for  I  have  in  my  head  some  six 
thousand  verses  more,  and  they  echo  within 
me  and  press  me  on, —  may  I  not  be  so  neg- 
lected as  that  famous  man  in  the  fable,  who 
whispered  his  woe  into  the  bosom  of  a  hollow 
old  willow.) 


MAGDALEN  47 

Jifi  was  for  a  whole  evening  drowned 
in  the  glitter  of  Lucy's  eyes.  For  a  whole 
evening  he  felt  within  himself  a  sense  of 
moral  rectitude,  and  he  chid  and  pitied  her. 
He  spoke  impassionately,  and  he  spoke 
much.  At  midnight  he  pressed  her  hand, 
and  went  home  through  the  damp  night. 

As  he  walked,  the  icy  calm  returned  to 
him.  He  called  himself  an  ideal  ass  and 
fool,  to  allow  himself  to  be  seduced  by 
treacherously  clear  eyes  to  play  a  stupid 
comedy.  He  swore  he  would  never  put  his 
foot  again  in  that  house.  .  .  .  On  reaching 
home,  he  retired  and  slept  a  peaceful  sleep, 
as  ever,  until  nine. 

So  passed  five  or  six  days.  Jiff  became 
a  target  for  the  jokes  of  his  friends.  They 
teased  him  in  the  coffeehouse  and  in  the 
street.  They  asked  for  his  "Manon,"  his 
"charming  Manon."  They  told  him  how 
the  old  madam  was  cursing  him.  They  said 
that  Lucy  had  for  several  days  been  as  coy 


48  MAGDALEN 

as  a  nun,  that  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room 
for  the  whole  day  and  the  whole  evening, 
and  that  she  neither  spoke  nor  smiled,  and 
only  answered  with  a  nod  of  her  head  all 
the  questions  of  the  old  madam.  They 
maintained  that  she  would  carry  away  the 
prize  at  an  exhibition  of  virtue.  Jifi 
laughed  at  all  these  remarks,  but  inwardly 
he  felt  their  biting  irony: 

"They  are  right,"  thought  he;  "I  am 
acting  ridiculously.  A  fine  ending  that! 
After  all  that  life  has  taught  me,  after  all 
that  I  have  experienced,  I  have  sunk  into 
this  mire.  And  what  is  it  that  attracts  me 
to  it?  Is  it  that  ancient  Romanticism 
which  they  call  love?  Nonsense,  nonsense! 
These  strings  have  broken  in  me  long  ago. 
It  is  nothing  but  an  every-day  paradox,  a 
flower  cast  into  the  mud,  which  I  should 
otherwise  never  have  noticed  in  my  life.  .  .  . 
Let  us  make  an  end  of  it!" 

All  kinds  of  things  occurred  to  him:  to 
disappear,  to  travel, —  but  then  the  final 


MAGDALEN  49 

effect  would  be  lacking.  He  would  only  be 
over  and  again  ridiculous,  like  a  detected 
schoolboy.  But  why  run?  He  would  go 
once  more  into  that  place,  would  look  her 
up  like  anybody  else,  would  treat  her  like 
anybody  else,  would  pay  her  like  anybody 
else, —  for  had  she  not  a  superb  body,  and 
would  it  not  be  glorious  to  abate  the  fire  of 
his  passion  by  it?  .  .  .  a  dainty  morsel  .  .  . 
why  had  he  not  thought  sooner  of  it?  Then 
he  could  again  sit  with  a  clear  brow  in  the 
circle  of  his  friends. 

A  gloomy,  leaden  night  descended  upon 
the  jumble  of  streets.  The  sky  was  filled 
with  heavy  clouds,  and  stifling  vapors  rose 
into  the  hot  air.  The  gaslight  flickered 
weakly.  Here  and  there  a  few  small  drops 
fell  on  the  dust  of  the  pavement.  A  murky 
moment  that  chokes  the  human  throat.  The 
soul  is  crowded  in  an  awful  circle,  in  which 
it  tosses  about  aimlessly  and  hopelessly. 
Gloomy  thoughts  strike  it;  gloomy  scenes 


50  MAGDALEN 

arise  in  it ;  disconsolate  melodies  stir  its  very 
depths.  It  would  gladly  fly  out  of  the 
heavy  fetters  of  its  body,  away  from  this 
beclouded  earth,  higher,  higher,  some- 
where into  the  ether,  beyond  the  darkling 
heavens.  .  .  . 

These  moments  Lucy  was  passing  alone 
in  her  room.  On  the  round  table  before  her 
lay  a  book,  nearby,  some  needle-work;  per- 
chance both  had  occupied  her  since  noon. 
She  was  sitting  with  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap.  A  lamp  with  a  colored  shade  stood  at 
the  edge  of  the  table,  and  threw  a  faint  light 
upon  her  profile. 

Her  bewildered  eyes  scanned  the  paper  on 
the  opposite  wall.  At  times  she  closed 
them,  and  she  sighed,  as  if  exhausted  from 
thinking;  at  others,  again,  she  softly  turned 
her  head,  as  if  answering  her  own  questions. 
For  two  or  three  days  she  had  been  thus 
inwardly  agitated.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
some  illness  was  overpowering  her.  The 
nerves  of  her  head  were  strained.  She 


MAGDALEN  51 

often  thought  she  could  hear  her  blood  beat- 
ing in  her  temples. 

At  times  she  recalled  how  it  all  was  a 
month,  two  weeks  before, —  and  she  was 
frightened,  for  it  appeared  to  her  to  have 
happened  long,  long  ago,  two  or  three  years 
ago.  She  was  a  stranger  to  herself,  as  if 
some  one  had  withdrawn  from  under  her  feet 
the  soil  on  which  she  had  been  standing 
firmly  heretofore,  as  if,  after  a  dizzy  flight, 
she  had  fallen  into  some  strange,  unknown 
place. 

She  felt  a  constant  sadness.  Within  her 
all  was  black, —  in  her  childhood  she  had 
seen  thus  the  church  on  Good-Friday, — 
some  one  had  died.  Ah,  and  her  merriment  ? 
She  would  never  laugh  again.  .  .  .  And  as 
a  complement  to  these  pictures  appeared  to 
her  the  head  of  a  man,  with  thin  hair,  dark 
eyes,  and  impassioned,  fervid  speech,  who 
said  to  her: 

"You  are  wretched,  you  are  miserable  in 
this  life!  How  can  you  breathe  here?  Do 


52  MAGDALEN 

you  think  of  the  future?  Will  your  fate  be 
like  Kata's?  Or,  perhaps,  otherwise?  I 
would  rather  see  you  in  the  coffin!" 

When  that  man  for  the  first  time  crossed 
her  thoughts  (it  was  that  Saturday  evening, 
when  she  had  unbraided  her  blonde  hair),  it 
occurred  to  her  that  he  was  not  good-look- 
ing, but  nothing  else.  Then  he  came  again 
with  that  speech.  And  the  words  sounded 
in  her  soul  like  the  buzzing  of  a  bee  in  flight, 
as  she  wantonly  laughed  in  the  circle  of  her 
teasing  companions.  She  was  angry  with 
herself,  and  wanted  to  laugh  louder,  but  the 
voice  whispered  sternly  to  her:  "You  are 
wretched!  You  are  judged!" —  The  laugh- 
ter was  choked  in  her  throat.  .  .  .  The 
evening  came.  She  awaited  him  with  secret 
fear.  He  came.  He  again  looked  at  her 
with  pity.  And  he  again  spoke  sternly. 
"You  are  wretched!" 

Strange  man!  How  many  others  had 
come  before  with  such  reproachful  words! 


MAGDALEN  53 

But  here,  in  her  room,  they  all  were 
silenced,  and  only  showered  kisses  upon  her 
body.  ...  A  feeling  of  disgust  and  loath- 
ing overcame  her  at  the  recollection  of  those 
moments.  .  .  .  He  did  not  wish  anything 
else  from  her  but  the  pressure  of  her  hand ! 

She  was  instinctively  seized  by  terror  in 
the  presence  of  that  man.  It  would  be 
better,  if  he  did  not  come  at  all,  if  he  never 
came  again!  Why  did  he  always  speak  of 
that  which  could  nevermore  be  changed? 

She  now  felt  like  one  who  had  carried  a 
heavy  burden  for  many  hours.  Her  hands 
lay  helpless  in  her  lap;  all  her  limbs  were 
relaxed ;  she  felt  a  heavy  weight  pressing  her 
down.  .  .  . 

An  old,  dim  picture  of  childhood  kept 
stubbornly  returning  to  her ;  she  was  sitting 
somewhere  in  a  distant  room  upon  the  floor, 
playing  with  a  doll.  Her  mother,  whose 
features  she  saw  but  indistinctly,  was  lean- 
ing over  her,  and  with  dried-up  hand  was 


54  MAGDALEN 

smoothing  her  hair:  "May  the  Lord  give 
you  happiness,  my  angel!"  she  heard  her 
whispering. 

She  was  heavy  with  grief,  and  she  felt  like 
weeping:  "Why  did  that  man  come? 
Why  did  he  tear  away  from  my  eyes  the 
veil  through  which  I  had  been  looking  at  the 
world  and  at  myself?  And  at  my  life!  — 
'Judged  .  .  .  and  outcast !' —  Will  he  come 
to-day?" — And  she  was  worried  lest  he 
should  not  come. 

She  heard  steps,  and  she  recognized  them. 

She  rapidly  cast  a  look  into  the  mirror, 
and  with  her  soft  hand  smoothed  the  hair 
over  her  brow.  Jifi  entered,  faultlessly 
polite,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and,  as  ever,  with 
a  civil  greeting  upon  his  lips. 

The  first  raindrops  were  beating  against 
the  windowpanes.  There  was  lightning 
and  thunder. 

He  sat  opposite  her  and  again  looked  at 
those  eyes  that  formerly  were  gay  and  smil- 
ing, but  now  veiled  with  sadness.  He 


MAGDALEN  55 

looked  at  her,  and  he  felt  embarrassed  by  all 
his  latest  plans.  He  did  not  wish  to  think 
of  them  even.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  head, 
and  whole  streams  of  great  speeches  flooded 
his  brain  and  dinned  in  his  soul. 

In  a  subdued  voice  he  told  her  that  to-day 
was  the  last  time  he  had  come  to  see  her; 
that  for  days  and  nights  he  had  been  doing 
nothing  but  thinking  of  her,  and  that  now 
he  wanted  her  decision.  He  asked  her 
whether  she  wanted  to  give  up  her 
present  life,  and  that  poisonous  atmosphere; 
whether  she  wished  again  to  live  in  the 
world,  among  decent  people, —  and  he  con- 
tinued speaking  in  that  strain.  A  feeling 
of  elation  took  possession  of  him,  and  he 
chose  words,  expressions,  and  elevated 
phrases  from  the  poems  and  novels  which 
he  had  read  at  some  time  or  other. 

He  told  her  that  he  was  sufficiently  well- 
to-do,  that  he  was  endowed  with  an  active 
mind,  that  he  was  experienced  in  the  ways 
of  the  world,  and  that  he  also  was  quite  cul- 


56  MAGDALEN 

tured,  but  that,  like  that  man  in  Holy  Writ, 
who  had  buried  his  treasure  in  the  lap  of  the 
earth,  he  had  not  made  use  of  his  life  before, 
neither  for  his  good,  nor  for  the  good  of  the 
world.  .  .  .  He  was  a  cipher  among  men, 
and  his  life  had  no  aims.  He  had  paid  for 
it  dearly;  had  despaired,  had  suffered  cruel 
losses,  much  unspeakable  torment,  and  he 
had  nothing  from  all  that  but  a  series  of 
wearisome  hours.  He  knew  full  well  that 
he  would  not  in  the  future  be  any  better, 
that  his  bones  would  be  lying  in  a  forgotten 
grave.  .  .  . 

Now,  if  he  could  at  least  draw  her  out  of 
this  mire,  and  turn  her  pure  eyes  once  more 
to  the  light  into  which  she  was  now  looking, 
there  would  then  be  in  his  life  at  least  one 
proper  tabula  rasa.  .  .  . 

He  told  her  he  had  an  aunt, —  a  good 
woman,  like  a  child,  like  an  angel, —  he  had 
himself  sinned  so  much  against  her  that  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself, —  and  he  intended 


MAGDALEN  57 

to  take  Lucy  to  her.  Her  silvery  hair 
would  be  Lucy's  shield.  He  was  sure  she 
would  take  care  of  her  as  of  her  daughter. 
He  intended  to  take  her  there  soon, 
even  that  day,  right  away,  if  she  only 
wanted.  .  .  . 

Lucy  looked  with  clouded  eyes  at  one 
spot:  at  his  hand  which  was  nervously 
twitching  upon  the  table.  Without  a  word, 
she  suddenly  seized  it,  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
and  sobbed  out  loud. 

The  door  was  softly  opened,  and  the  old 
madam  looked  discretely  into  the  room. 

"I  knocked  at  least  five  times,  so  pardon 
me  for  interrupting  you.  I  just  wanted  to 
say  a  few  words  to  you,  sir.  .  .  ." 

"And  I  to  you,"  Jifi  answered.  "We 
shall  both  leave  together  this  evening,  the 
young  lady  and  I,  forever." 

"So  there  will  be  a  wedding?" 

"No,  no,"  Lucy  quickly  answered,  her 
face  and  neck  burning. 


58  MAGDALEN 

"The  young  lady  will  return  to  the  world, 
to  respectable  people,"  Jifi  explained  with 
dignity. 

"I  wish  you  luck,  Lucy,  with  all  my  heart, 
only  I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  know.  .  . . ." 

"Enough,  enough  talking,  let  us  rather 
pass  to  business,  dear  madam,"  Jifi  sternly 
interrupted  her  speech. 

"Godspeed,  Lucy,  Godspeed,  my  sweet 
dove !  Remember  this :  if  you  do  not  feel  at 
home  in  that  world,  my  house  will  always  be 
open  for  you." 

Saying  this,  the  old  madam  kissed  Lucy's 
brow.  .  .  . 

A  beating  rain  fell  slantingly  upon  the 
street  pavement.  The  gaslight  flickered  in 
the  lamps ;  the  sky  was  black,  the  city  empty. 
Only  here  and  there  a  watchful  janitor  in  a 
dark  mantle  pressed  against  the  house  gate. 

That  night  Lucy  walked  to  Jifi's  house, 
to  begin  a  new  life.  .  .  . 


Ill 

A  GREY  head  with  a  white  morning 
cap,  with  pale-blue,  kindly  eyes, 
looked  in  through  the  door.  Lucy  opened 
her  eyes. 

"What,  already  up!  Good  morning! 
Once  more  welcome  to  our  home !  Through 
sleeping?  And  did  you  rest  well?  Dear 
child,  I  did  not  close  an  eye  from  joy  of 
having  you  here,"  chattered  the  old  lady  as 
she  approached  the  bed. 

She  offered  her  withered  hand,  and  Lucy 
was  about  to  imprint  a  kiss  upon  it,  but  the 
old  lady  exclaimed  loudly,  "Never  mind!" 
and  stroked  the  girl's  forehead  and  luxuriant 
hair. 

"I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  whether  I  might 
offer  you  something  of  my  old  wardrobe. 
Poor  girl,  your  garments  are  so  dreadfully 

59 


60  MAGDALEN 

wet!  —  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  downpour 
last  night,  but  why  could  not  my  Jin  have 
found  a  carriage  somewhere?  Well,  well, 
done  is  done, —  I  will  pick  you  out  some- 
thing of  my  own,  just  for  to-day;  to-morrow 
the  tailor  will  bring  you  new  raiment.  Per- 
haps my  clothes  will  fit  you.  I  once  was  of 
your  height,  but  that  was  very  long  ago,  to- 
day I  am  but  a  dried-up  old  woman.  .  .  . 
I  will  be  back  in  fifteen  minutes." 

She  went  away.  Lucy  was  all  that  time 
as  if  on  burning  coals  before  that  pure,  dim 
eye.  She  drew  her  coverlet  up  to  her  chin. 

Then  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  jumped  out 
of  bed  like  a  doe,  and  slipped  with  lightning 
speed  into  her  stockings  and  shoes.  She 
threw  on  a  morning  gown  of  a  flowery  pat- 
tern, which  the  thoughtful  old  lady  had  left 
with  her  the  night  before,  washed  herself, 
arranged  her  hair  a  little,  and  looked  curi- 
ously around  the  room. 

The  living  room  of  a  nascent  old  bachelor. 
The  care  of  a  woman's  hand  lay  over  it,  but 


MAGDALEN  61 

the  slovenliness  of  the  inmate  peeped  out 
everywhere.  Lucy  could  not  harmonize 
that  room  with  the  man  who  had  been  so 
earnest,  deep,  and  stern  with  her.  The 
table,  with  photographs  of  half -naked  ballet 
dancers  upon  it;  the  picture  of  some  club 
upon  the  wall, —  the  photographer  had  im- 
mortalized it  during  a  drinking  bout, —  with 
Jifi  standing  in  the  middle,  smoking  a  pipe 
and  grinning  in  a  peculiar  manner;  the 
locked  bookcase,  with  beautifully  bound  but 
dust  covered  books;  the  hopping  canary  in 
its  cage,  looking  playful  with  its  chubby 
head, —  these  impressions  fell  like  molten 
drops  into  the  depth  of  Lucy's  soul,  where 
lay  the  picture  of  the  man,  the  first  who  had 
held  her  respect. 

She  stepped  abashed  to  the  window. 
Drawing  the  shades,  she  saw  before  her  a 
large  garden  in  all  its  flowery  beauty.  A 
fresh  breeze  bore  upwards  the  scent  of  the 
elders  and  flooded  the  room  with  it.  The 
trees  were  in  bloom.  Their  tops  looked  as 


62  MAGDALEN 

though  they  had  been  powdered;  their 
leaves,  still  wet,  moved  to  and  fro,  glistening 
like  diamonds.  The  grass  lay  prostrate, 
bent  by  the  weight  of  the  raindrops.  The 
flowers  gleamed  in  fresh  colors  in  their  beds. 
White  and  blue  butterflies  flew  out  of  them 
and  flitted  upwards.  A  bird  with  an  irides- 
cent breast, —  a  finch  it  was, —  flapped  its 
wings  in  the  damp  sand  of  the  walk,  then 
flew  upon  a  tree,  and  began  to  chirp.  .  .  . 
Beyond  the  garden  could  be  seen  the  red 
roofs  of  the  houses.  .  .  .  Over  every- 
thing lay  the  immeasurable  azure  of  the 
heavens.  .  .  . 

The  calm  and  peace  of  that  morning,  with 
the  smile  and  power  of  the  spring  upon  it, 
stirred  Lucy's  heart.  All  suddenly  became 
clear  to  her  oppressed  and  crushed  soul.  A 
new  life,  a  new  life!  The  past  was  shut 
out,  and  she  would  turn  upon  her  new  road 
with  fresh  vigor.  .  .  . 

She  folded  her  hands:  she  was  moved  by 
the  pious  faith  of  her  childish  years.  From 


MAGDALEN  63 

the  depth  of  her  soul  poured  forth  fervent, 
whispered  words  of  prayer. 

She  was  praying  for  herself,  her  father, 
her  dead  mother,  the  kind  lady,  under  whose 
roof  she  was  living,  Jifi,  the  old  woman,  her 
wretched  companions,  who  were  still  welter- 
ing in  the  mire, —  sympathy  for  everybody, 
love  for  everything  flowed  from  her  soul. 

"Dear  child,  pray,  forgive  me,"  were  the 
gentle  words  which  she  heard.  With  gen- 
tle care,  such  as  we  use  towards  holy  relics, 
the  old  lady  spread  strange,  old-fashioned 
garments  upon  the  table  and  the  couch. 
The  perfume  of  lavender  issued  from  the 
folds  of  those  raiments.  In  those  colors, 
ribbons,  and  frills  breathed  the  forties, —  by- 
gone pleasures,  bygone  beauty,  bygone  peo- 
ple, a  bygone  life.  .  .  . 

"Now  this  one  here  I  had  on  as  I  went 
with  my  dear  departed  husband  to  the  wed- 
ding of  Jifi's  father."  The  old  lady  handed 
her  a  green  silk  garment  which  glistened 
with  a  reddish-golden  sheen. 


64  MAGDALEN 

Lucy  timidly  took  off  her  robe,  and  still 
more  timidly,  began  to  put  on  that  old-fash- 
ioned dress.  .  .  . 

"Don't  be  afraid,  dear  child,"  said  the  old 
lady,  helping  her  to  dress,  "it  will  not  tear 
so  easily,  for  it  is  good  old  material.  .  .  . 
This  gown  has  lasted  a  long  while,"  she 
said,  as  she  laced  the  girl's  waist  in  the  back. 
"My  husband  was  so  fond  of  it !  Ah,  he  has 
been  lying  in  God's  earth  these  twenty-five 
years !" 

She  drew  a  sigh,  straightened  out  the 
skirt,  ruffled  the  sleeves  a  little,  stepped  three 
steps  back,  and  smiled : 

"Just  see  how  becoming  it  is  to  you! 
What  a  beautiful  girl  you  are!  O  Lord! 
At  least  take  a  look  at  yourself !" 

She  led  her  to  the  mirror,  and,  with  folded 
hands,  proudly  gazed  at  her.  In  the  look- 
ing-glass appeared  the  lithe  form  of  a  fair 
maiden;  the  bell-shaped  skirt  hung  down 
from  her  slender  waist,  while  a  girdle  of 
black  ribbons  wound  around  it.  The  bodice 


MAGDALEN  65 

was  gathered  in  front  into  a  series  of  ruffles, 
and  was  held  below  by  a  gold  buckle.  The 
large,  puffed-up  sleeve  made  her  hand  ap- 
pear as  small  as  a  child's.  Her  neck  stood 
out  against  the  green  garment  like  white 
marble.  Her  eyes  glistened  with  a  soft, 
liquid  brilliancy. 

"This  is  the  way,  my  child,  the  hair  used 
to  be  combed."  The  enthusiastic  old  lady 
showed  her  how.  "Here  over  the  temples, 
and  down  to  the  cheeks,  and  then  back  again, 
and  behind,  gathered  into  a  braid, —  you  see, 
that  is  the  way  they  wore  it  then, —  O  Lord, 
while  I  am  talking  to  you,  the  coffee  is  get- 
ting cold!  Come  to  breakfast!" 

She  led  her  into  the  next  room.  Lucy 
cast  a  passing  glance  around  her.  In  the 
middle  stood  a  round  table,  and  the  cloth, 
with  its  floral  design,  reached  the  floor. 
The  coffee  was  steaming  in  dainty  cups. 

She  saw  a  wealth  of  flowers  in  the  win- 
dows: cacti,  myrtles,  azaleas  and  begonias. 
On  a  tall  chest  of  drawers  gleamed  a  gilt 


66  MAGDALEN 

crucifix  under  a  glass  bell,  and  nearby  stood 
two  wax  candles  and  a  clock,  the  face  of 
which  was  supported  by  winding  pillars  of 
alabaster. 

Above  them,  the  wall  was  covered  with 
ambrotypes,  with  black  silhouettes  and  wax 
profiles, —  all  in  pretty  frames.  Between 
the  windows,  at  the  head  of  the  room,  hung 
an  oil  painting  of  a  stern-looking  man,  in 
a  blue  coat  and  black  neckcloth.  Under- 
neath it,  behind  glass,  were  a  few  withered 
leaves, —  a  dried-up  wedding  wreath.  Near 
the  door  was  fastened  a  water  basin,  and 
from  it  peeped  fresh  twigs  of  pussy  willow. 
In  the  corner  stood  a  china  closet  lined  with  a 
shining  mirror  and  full  of  cups,  vases,  and 
silver,  and  tiny  porcelain  figures.  A  yel- 
low filigree  spinet  glistened  dimly  on  the 
other  side.  Solid  antiquity  looked  out 
of  all  corners  with  a  soft  and  peaceful 
glance. 

"Do  take  one  more  cup!  The  cream  is 
not  very  good, —  city  quality !  —  Do  you  see 


MAGDALEN  67 

there,"  she  pointed  at  the  portrait  between 
the  windows,  "that's  he,  my  husband.  He 
looks  so  stern, —  that  was  his  habit,  but  his 
heart  was  golden.  Here  you  see  him  once 
more."  She  took  down  from  the  wall  an 
ambrotype:  "You,  my  dear  one,  are  rest- 
ing in  the  Lord!"  and  she  shook  her  head 
over  it. 

"And  this  Jiff  is  just  like  him:  he  growls 
and  gets  angry,  but  that  is  only  his  shell; 
the  kernel  is  gold,  gold,  I  tell  you,"  and  the 
old  lady  continued  in  that  strain. 

Jifi  was  in  the  meantime  sleeping,  in  his 
room  that  had  been  changed  to  the  other 
end  of  the  corridor.  She  told  of  his  child- 
hood, his  parents,  the  town  where  Jifi  had  a 
mill  and  an  estate, —  she  spoke  with  the 
pleasure  of  a  person  who  had  for  a  long  time 
been  deprived  of  her  full  say. 

Then,  without  saying  a  word,  an  old 
wizened  servant  cleared  off  the  table  and, 
measuring  Lucy  with  the  eye  of  a  basilisk, 
put  upon  the  table  linen,  cloth,  patterns, 


68  MAGDALEN 

ribbons,  needles,  and  thread, —  each  in  its 
proper  place,  as  if  by  habit. 

The  old  lady  was  not  disturbed  by  all 
this,  but  continued  speaking,  holding  her 
hands  all  the  time  upon  her  breast,  while  her 
eyes  shone  with  the  fire  of  joyful  recollec- 
tions. 

The  blood  beat  strongly  in  Lucy's 
temples.  She  had  not  yet  spoken  a  word; 
she  was  waiting  with  trembling  for  some 
question,  though  she  did  not  know  what  it 
was  to  be.  She  was  waiting,  like  a  captured 
animal,  for  some  sudden  injury;  but  the  old 
lady  kept  on  talking,  never  asking  a  ques- 
tion, and  resting  her  eyes  from  time  to 
time  upon  her  with  unspeakable  kindness. 
Something  was  choking  Lucy,  and  she 
would  fain  have  put  all  her  strength  in  one 
painful  cry, —  suddenly,  some  strange  tor- 
rent carried  her  off  her  feet,  sent  her  head 
a-whirling, —  she  sobbed  out  loud,  tears 
burst  forth  in  her  eyes,  and  with  a  subdued 
cry  she  fell  to  the  feet  of  the  old  lady. 


MAGDALEN  69 

"Dear  child,  my  child,  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?"  The  old  lady  was  frightened, 
and  she  lifted  her  up. 

Lucy  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
made  a  confession.  Words,  incoherent, 
bitter,  terrible,  poured  forth  from  her 
stormy  breast.  Self-accusations  followed 
each  other  without  evasion;  she  read  the 
blackest  pages  in  the  book  of  life,  comment- 
ing upon  them  pitilessly. 

The  old  lady  could  not  grasp  it  all  and 
kept  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  she  suddenly 
closed  the  reproachful  mouth  with  a  kiss. 

"I  know  it  all.  Jifi  told  me.  Calm 
yourself.  It  will  be  different  now.  That 
happened  long  ago,"  and  large  tears 
dropped  on  the  girl's  blonde  hair.  She 
pressed  her  to  her  breast  and  sobbed  aloud : 
"Calm  yourself,  dear  child!" 

"My  presence  is  a  sin,  a  sin  against  you, 
kind  lady,  against  this  room,  against  every- 
thing," Lucy  sobbed  again.  "As  I  look  at 
the  mire  in  which  I  have  been.  .  .  ." 


70  MAGDALEN 

"Dear  child,  last  night,  before  Jiri  came  to 
me,  my  thoughts  were  heavy, —  you  see,  I 
can't  sleep  much, —  I  was  thinking  what 
little  good  there  was  in  dragging  along  my 
old  bones  .  .  .  why  should  I  be  living,  since 
I  am  alone  in  this  world,  like  a  lonely  pear- 
tree  in  a  wide  field?  My  husband  is  dead, 
I  have  no  children,  Jiff  has  long  been  as  a 
stranger  to  me, —  just  then  he  entered.  I 
was  frightened,  but  he  kissed  my  brow, —  he 
had  never  done  so  before, —  and  he  said: 
'You  have  a  guest.  I  want  to  return  to  life 
a  fallen  girl, —  but  it  can  be  done  only  with 
your  help,  dear  aunt.'  You  see,  it  is  the 
will  of  the  Lord.  You  are  mine.  When  I 
saw  you,  wet  through  and  through  and 
trembling,  I  pitied  you  with  my  whole  heart. 
You  will  stay  here  for  my  sake." 

Saying  that,  she  kissed  her  brow  and 
gently  smoothed  her  hair,  wiping  her  wet 
face  with  her  handkerchief. 

A  new  peace  took  possession  of  Lucy's 
soul.  She  felt  as  though  she  had  ascended 


MAGDALEN  71 

the  summit  of  a  mountain.  A  soft  breeze 
circled  around  her.  Infinity  lay  stretched 
out  before  her  eyes.  Beautiful  colors 
gleamed  in  the  splendor  of  the  sun.  Man 
was  lost  unto  himself.  .  .  . 

Women's  tears.  .  .  .  Reader,  they  are  a 
salutary  property  of  Eve's  daughters  in  this 
world.  There  is  not  a  sorrow  of  a  woman, 
not  a  grief,  burden,  memory,  not  one 
shadow,  that  cannot  be  washed  away  by  a 
few  salty,  bitter  tears!  Once  again,  her 
soul  is  changed  and  free,  playing  like  the 
many-colored  butterfly  that  flits  about  in  the 
golden  light  over  a  flowery  meadow.  .  .  . 

Lucy  was  sitting  at  the  spinet.  The  old 
lady  placed  a  sheet  of  music  before  her. 

"Here  is  the  song  of  which  my  deceased 
husband  used  to  be  very  fond.  It  is 
a  German  song, —  yet  he  was  a  patriot  and 
a  good  Bohemian.  As  a  student  he  used  to 
frequent  Jungmann's  *  house !  My  child, 

i  Josef  Jungmann   (1773-1847)  was  the  most  prominent 
of  the  founders  of  a  New-Bohemian  literature. 


72  MAGDALEN 

how  many  tears  we  used  to  shed  over  it !  ... 
My  husband  too  .  .  .  both  of  us,  both.  .  .  ." 
Lucy  read  the  inscription  of  the  song: 
"Die  Thrane,  ein  Lied  von  Kiicken"  Her 
hands  then  fell  upon  the  keys.  The  weak, 
subdued  tones  sounded  like  the  whispered 
words  of  a  toothless  old  man.  The  old  lady 
rested  her  left  hand  upon  her  side,  and  with 
beaming  eyes  looked  at  that  yellow  paper, 
while  with  her  right  hand  she  beat  time; 
then  she  fell  to  singing: 

"Macht  man  in's  Leben 
Kaum  den  ersten  Schritt." 

It  was  a  thin  voice,  which  got  to  rasping 
in  the  upper  tones,  as  it  trembled  forth  from 
her  lips.  Her  old  heart  was  more  and  more 
strongly  agitated  by  the  breath  of  recollec- 
tions, and  her  sered  face  became  colored  with 
the  red  hue  of  an  autumn  leaf.  .  .  . 

"Bringe  man  als  Kind  schon 
Eine  Thrane  mit, 
Und  Freudenthranen 
Giebt,  als  ersten  Grass, 


MAGDALEN  73 

Dem  Kind  die  Mutter 

Mit  dem  ersten  Kuss; 

Man  wachst  empor  dann 

Zwischen  Freud'  und   Schmerz, 

Da  zieht  die  Liebe  in  das  junge  Herz, 

Und  offenbart 

Das  Herz  der  Jungfrau  sich, 

Spricht  eine  Thrane: 

Ja !  ich  liebe  dich !  .  .  ." 

A  strong  voice  in  the  door  sang  out  the 
refrain  with  them.  The  women  grew 
silent. 

"I  see,  Aunty,"  laughed  Jiff,  "y°u  are 
making  a  good  display  of  all  your  favorite 
things." 

He  stood  there,  foppishly  dressed,  in  all 
his  glory,  and  bowed  urbanely. 

Lucy  rose  from  her  seat.  She  offered 
him  her  hand  for  a  greeting. 

"That  was  not  a  bad  idea,  Aunty,  this 
gown  is  becoming  to  the  young  lady,"  he 
remarked  in  a  careless  way,  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

They  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  and 


74  MAGDALEN 

talked.  The  old  lady  told  Lucy  about  her 
poor,  about  her  sewing  for  the  little  folk, 
showed  her  the  patterns,  the  cloth,  the  linen, 
needle,  thread,  and  asked  her  opinion  of  this 
and  that.  Lucy  seemed  to  be  interested  in 
everything.  She  listened  attentively  and 
announced  her  views  with  a  clear  voice. 
Jiff,  in  the  meantime,  looked  at  her  with  the 
usual  scornful  and  ironical  expression  about 
his  lips.  From  time  to  time  he  cracked  a 
joke,  put  in  a  word  or  a  short  sentence,  or 
yawned. 

A  secret  unrest  nestled  in  the  souls  of 
these  three  people.  The  old  lady  felt  pro- 
voked for  having  been  so  moved  by  her 
"Thrane"  Then  she  was  seized  with  terror 
at  the  lack  of  consideration  which  showed  in 
Jiffs  words,  and  at  this  glimpse  of  the  soul 
from  which  she  had  become  estranged. 

To  Lucy  his  appearance  brought  the 
memory  of  her  past  days  and  of  the  place 
where  she  had  lived,  where  she  had  seen  him 
for  the  first  time.  Besides,  he  seemed  to  her 


MAGDALEN  75 

to  be  somehow  changed,  in  some  way  smaller, 
more  trifling,  and  empty.  She  thought  of 
his  room,  those  photographs  of  women,  and 
the  pictures  on  the  wall, —  and  something 
urged  her  to  watch  every  word  and  smile  and 
motion  of  his.  She  felt  a  strange  rustiness 
growing  in  her  soul,  and  effacing  his  picture 
which  was  imprinted  somewhere  in  its  depth. 
Jiff  again  saw  himself  in  a  very  peculiar 
situation:  he  had  sobered  down  from  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  night  before,  and  that  girl 
was  a  stranger  to  him  in  his  aunt's  house, 
at  that  table,  and  in  that  gown.  There  was 
no  longer  that  penetrating  perfume  of 
orgies,  and  this  was  not  the  large  parlor  in 
that  house.  What  would  happen  next?  It 
occurred  to  him  that  he  really  had  had  no 
intention  beforehand  of  doing  what  he  later 
did, —  what  was  it  that  had  impelled  him  to 
take  her  away  and  bring  her  here?  It  was 
stupid  and  ridiculous !  It  was  as  though  he 
had  carelessly  stepped  upon  the  edge  of  a 
steep  and  precipitous  rock:  one  unwary 


76  MAGDALEN 

moment,  and  he  would  be  flying  down- 
wards. .  .  .  As  that  picture  arose  in  his 
mind,  he  closed  his  eyes  a  little,  with  the 
resignation  of  a  fatalist. 

They  continued  their  conversation.  An 
hour  later  Jifi  rose  from  his  seat  and  bade 
them  good-bye.  He  said  he  would  look  in 
at  the  tailor's  to  order  some  gowns  for  Lucy, 
then  he  would  buy  a  few  things,  and  so  forth, 
—  in  reality,  ennui  and  his  old  habits  drove 
him  to  the  coffeehouse,  to  the  Pf  fkopi,  and  to 
his  friends.  .  .  . 

The  women  sat  down  to  work.  The  old 
lady  started  again  on  her  recollections,  all 
the  time  sewing,  cutting  and  measuring. 
Lucy  with  dainty  stitches  was  hemming 
some  babies'  shirts.  A  gentle  warmth  filled 
their  souls.  Outside  gleamed  a  bright 
spring  day.  The  voices  of  chirping  spar- 
rows reached  them  from  the  street.  .  .  . 

Then  Lucy  burst  out  laughing, —  for  the 
first  time  here.  The  old  lady  was  telling  of 
her  wedding:  the  bridegroom  had  arrived, 


MAGDALEN  77 

all  dressed  up;  he  ran  into  the  room,  imme- 
diately turned  about,  and  ran  back;  he  once 
more  jumped  into  the  coach,  hunted  in  all 
the  corners,  and  gloomily  returned, —  he  had 
somewhere  lost  his  bridal  bouquet !  Only  at 
the  dinner,  after  the  toasts,  did  he  suddenly 
fish  it  out  from  his  endless  folds,  all  crushed 
and  withered.  The  old  lady  laughed  so 
much  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  .  .  . 


IV 


see,  you  see,  dear  child,  what  the 
fashions  can  do?  How  it  fits  you! 
What  a  tailor  that  is!  However,  it  is  your 
figure  that  really  does  it  !" 

Up  to  noon  a  golden  light  fell  into  the 
room.  Everything  looked  neat  and  trim,  as 
in  a  show-case.  The  glass  and  the  frames 
of  the  pictures,  the  surface  of  the  spinet,  and 
the  armchairs,  shone  with  a  pale  gleam. 
Lucy  was  standing  before  the  looking-glass, 
buttoning  her  new  gown.  The  grey  cloth 
and  the  English  cut  were  beautifully  becom- 
ing to  her  slender  body.  Her  eyes  were 
beaming  (there  is  not  a  woman,  reader,  who 
could  pass  that  moment  with  frosty  calm  !  )  . 
The  aunt  shook  her  head,  as  she  walked  all 
around  her  and  commented: 

"Where   are   our  old   fashions!    Where 

78 


MAGDALEN  79 

are  those  times!  Where  are  those  customs! 
I  alone  am  left  .  .  .  and  the  scythe-bearer 
has  forgotten  me!  .  .  ." 

"Enough,  Aunty,  not  another  word, — 
you  should  be  ashamed  to  talk  that  way!" 
Lucy  threatened  her. 

"Well,  may  you  wear  the  dress  out  in 
health,"  the  old  lady  laughed  merrily,  and 
from  an  old  habit  tapped  Lucy's  ear. 

In  those  few  days  she  had  found  a  new 
life  through  Lucy.  Her  soul  was  like  one 
of  those  winding  plants  that  grow  only  when 
they  can  climb  up  something  stronger,  a  tree, 
a  bush,  or  even  a  withe.  They  gently  enfold 
it  with  their  vines,  leaves  and  flowers,  run- 
ning together  with  it  into  one  inseparable 
life.  A  blow  that  is  aimed  at  one,  also 
reaches  the  other;  with  the  death  of  the  one, 
ends  also  the  life  of  the  other. 

Even  thus  Lucy  had  attracted  to  herself 
that  weak  soul;  she  held  the  authority  of  a 
mother  over  the  old  lady.  In  the  morning 
she  combed  her  grey  hair,  put  on  her  cap,  and 


80  MAGDALEN 

had  to  tell  her  what  should  be  prepared  for 
dinner.  Every  moment  the  aunt  asked: 
"What  do  you  say,  Lucy?" 

Lucy  lived  her  new  life  with  a  vim.  In 
that  atmosphere  she  breathed  freely  and 
softly.  If  at  times  she  thought  of  the  olden 
days,  she  felt  as  though  she  had  a  horrible 
dream  from  a  long  bygone  past.  Indeed, 
it  was  hard  to  identify  her  with  that  "Lucy" 
of  the  ill-famed  house. 

There  was  one  thing  which  annoyed  her: 
Jiff.  She  saw  him  but  rarely,  a  moment  in 
the  morning,  at  dinner,  and  sometimes  in 
the  evening.  She  never  felt  at  ease  in  his 
presence.  The  more  she  knew  him,  the 
more  she  saw  his  emptiness.  She  disliked 
his  wit,  which  he  ostensibly  employed  to 
sparkle  with;  in  his  remarks  there  was  a 
breath  of  that  perfume  which  she  had  scented 
in  her  former  impure  life.  She  was  always 
in  a  rage  over  the  inconsiderate  tones  in 
which  he  addressed  his  aunt.  She  would 
gladly  have  thrown  herself  upon  him,  would 


MAGDALEN  81 

have  struck  him  with  a  clenched  fist,  would 
have  choked  him  like  a  cat.  .  .  . 

Both  were  again  sitting  at  their  work. 
The  old  servant  entered  the  room  to  an- 
nounce the  janitor,  her  basilisk  eyes  all  the 
time  measuring  Lucy,  who  was  bending  over 
her  sewing.  The  man  stepped  after  her  into 
the  room,  holding  his  cap  under  his  arm. 
He  hemmed,  and  his  grey  eyes  rested  upon 
Lucy, —  a  dumb  terror  made  them  bulge  out, 
but  only  for  a  moment.  Like  a  messenger 
of  great  things,  he  assumed  a  solemn  pose  : 

"Madam,  three  times  to-day  a  certain  per- 
son has  asked  for  our  young  gentleman.  I 
got  rid  of  him:  'He  is  not  at  home.' — 
'When  will  he  be  back?'—  Said  I:  'I  do  not 
know.'  Then  he  kept  asking  for  a  young 
lady.  I  think  he  meant  that  one  there  .  .  . 
that  young  lady  there.  Madam,  it  is  a 
dreadful  thing  I  have  come  to  see  you  about. 
It  is  a  disgrace,  a  deception,  a  frightful  sin 
that  the  young  gentleman  has  perpetrated 


82  MAGDALEN 

against  you,  madam!  A  fine  guest  he  has 
brought  into  our  honorable  house !  I  know 
everything !" 

The  old  lady  grew  suddenly  pale: 
"Enough,  enough!  Not  another  word!" 

But  the  janitor  proceeded:  "She  is  a 
fallen  woman!" 

"Out  of  here!    And  not  another  word!" 

"I  am  only  thinking  of  your  honor.  .  .  ." 

"Out  of  here!"  and  trembling  with  rage, 
as  he  had  never  seen  her  before,  the  old  lady 
fell  to  the  ground. 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  the 
guardian  of  the  house  mumbled  angrily  at 
the  door.  The  wizened  old  servant  hur- 
riedly followed  after  him. 

"Those  servants,"  stormed  the  old 
lady.  .  .  .  "But,  Lucy,"  she  turned  with  a 
gentle  voice  to  Lucy,  from  whose  eyes  large 
tears  were  trickling,  "please  don't.  I  will 
have  a  talk  with  him.  At  heart  he  is  a  good 
man.  You  see  for  yourself,  he  means  to 
protect  me.  He  does  not  know  the  situa- 


MAGDALEN  83 

tion."  And  she  kissed  her,  and  smoothed 
the  hair  over  her  temples. 

"Yes,  this  way,"  was  heard  the  jani- 
tor's voice  behind  the  door.  Some  one 
entered.  .  .  .  Lucy's  blood  curdled  in 
her  veins, —  her  father!  .  .  .  He  looked 
around, —  joy  sparkled  in  his  dim  eyes, — 
they  rested  upon  Lucy.  Then  he  bowed  to 
the  aunt: 

"Pardon  me,  lady.  A  sacred  right  brings 
me  here,  a  father's  right  to  his  daughter!" 
and  he  pointed  theatrically  at  Lucy.  "Yes, 
my  child.  .  .  ." 

Just  then  the  door  slammed  behind  him, 
and  Jiff,  with  burning  face,  flew  into  the 
room.  The  two  women  breathed  sighs  of 
relief. 

"You  wished?"  Jiff  asked  him  with  a 
trembling  voice,  as  he  recognized  him. 

"I  am  the  father  of  this  girl,  and  you,  sir, 
are  that  bold  man  who  have  dared  to  snatch 
her  out  of  my  care.  ..." 

"Care?"  Jiff  cried  in  rage. 


84  MAGDALEN 

"Care,"  said  the  drunken  man  in  a  per- 
suasive bass.  "We  have  different  views  of 
life,  sir.  What  is  honor?  But  an  empty 
name.  But  to  business.  I  was  once  a 
teacher,  yes,  sir,  a  teacher, —  you  are  sur- 
prised? But  to-day.  .  .  .  Fate  can  easily 
cast  down  a  man.  I  will  not,  however,  allow 
any  one  to  trample  upon  my  rights.  .  .  . 
My  daughter  belongs  to  me.  I  have  the 
points  of  law  all  at  hand.  .  .  ." 

"Enough  of  this,"  Jifi  interrupted  him 
with  a  sudden  calm,  smiling  scornfully.  He 
drew  out  his  pocketbook,  and  pressed  some- 
thing into  the  hand  of  the  drunkard. 

Being  disarmed,  and  at  the  same  time 
tamed,  he  grasped  Jiff's  hand. 

"Sir,  you  are  an  honorable  man,  you  are 
in  sympathy  with  us,"  his  deep  bass 
trembled  with  unexpected  gratefulness,  "I 
entrust  my  daughter  to  you.  She  is  my 
happiness, —  the  Antigone  of  my  misery. 
You,  sir,  will  come  to  value  her  .  .  .  Lucy, 
make  a  note  of  my  good  fatherly  advice: 


MAGDALEN  85 

esteem  your  benefactors!  .  .  .  Permit  me," 
this  to  Jiff,  "to  call  from  time  to  time,"  and, 
inclining  his  head  to  him,  he  added,  with  a 
sly  whisper :  "My  daughter  may  rebel,  but 
the  paternal  authority  will  keep  her  within 
bounds." 

Jifi  opened  the  door  for  him.  The  good 
father  shook  his  hands,  bade  the  old  lady 
good-bye,  and,  threatening  Lucy  with  his 
finger,  went  away. 

Quiet,  an  oppressive  quiet,  took  possession 
of  the  room.  Jiff  stepped  to  the  window, 
and  drummed  the  quick  measure  of  a  march 
upon  the  pane.  He  suddenly  turned  to  his 
aunt,  who  was  looking  sorrowfully  at  Lucy: 

"We  will  go  into  the  country  to-day." 

"To-day?" 

"We  will  start  right  after  dinner.  Get 
everything  ready.  I  have  already  ordered  a 
coach." 

He  had,  indeed,  ordered  it.  He  had 
flown  like  an  arrow  out  of  the  coffeehouse. 
A  real  hell  was  seething  within  him.  They 


86  MAGDALEN 

had  been  conversing.  Some  one  remarked 
that  Lucy  had  disappeared.  Laughter. 
Questions  rained  down  on  Jiff.  Just 
then  a  better  sentiment  took  possession  of 
him,  just  as  if  the  glance  of  those  blue  eyes 
were  resting  upon  him,  and  the  maiden 
seemed  to  him  purer,  higher,  better  than  all 
the  company  around  him.  He  told  them 
the  truth.  He  spoke  with  fervor  and  con- 
viction, from  the  depth  of  his  soul.  There 
was  a  burst  of  Homeric  laughter.  Sly  Jif i ! 
What  a  mantle!  How  cunningly  he  had 
done  it  all!  He  had  taken  her  under  his 
roof,  had  given  her  at  home  his  simple- 
minded  old  aunt  for  a  Cerberus,  to  whom  he 
ranted  of  the  penitent  Magdalen  with  her 
untainted  soul,  in  order  to  revel  secretly  in 
her  beautiful,  youthful  body!  What  a  sly 
fellow!  What  a  sly  fellow! 

Jiff  gave  his  word  of  honor  that  he  spoke 
the  truth.  He  was  answered  with  renewed 
laughter.  His  blood  boiled:  he  called  them 
rascally  good-for-nothings,  fools,  and  people 


MAGDALEN  87 

without  honor.  He  would  forever  turn  his 
back  upon  their  society.  And  he  went  home. 
On  his  way  he  hired  a  coach.  He  seized 
upon  a  journey  into  the  country  as  a  saving 
anchor.  .  .  . 

Pale,  and  breathing  heavily,  Lucy  rose 
from  her  seat.  Whole  sentences  were  on 
her  lips,  but  she  only  said:  "Do  not  go.  I 
shall  go  myself!"  She  fell  back  into  the 
chair  with  the  whole  weight  of  her  body. 
She  did  not  weep,  nor  speak.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  somewhere  in  space,  as  if  she 
wished  to  reach  something  that  was  escaping 
her.  The  old  lady  went  up  to  her.  Jifi 
spoke  more  sternly:  "Nonsense I  We  will 
go!" 

Reader,  how  futile  are  our  intentions!  I 
had  planned  to  sketch  with  epic  calm  a  few 
pictures  from  the  life  of  common,  every-day 
people, —  and  behold,  I  must  confess  that 
my  hand  is  trembling,  my  eyes  are  somehow 
moist,  and  the  darkness  of  vain,  barren 


88  MAGDALEN 

anxiety  is  upon  my  soul.  Against  all  se- 
rious rules  I  push  myself  forward  in  place 
of  my  puny  heroes. 

A  recollection.  .  .  .  Reader,  suddenly  a 
picture  of  my  distant  home  rises  in  my  soul. 
Under  my  window  are  the  noises  of  Vienna, 
the  steps  and  the  conversations  of  the 
passers-by,  and  the  din  of  the  tinkling  tram- 
way,—  but  I  see  a  road,  far,  far  away.  It 
leads  out  of  Prague.  A  broad  swath  of  dust 
winds  through  a  sea  of  green  fields,  cuts 
through  a  few  small  villages,  now  goes  down, 
now  again  rises.  Here  it  turns,  there  it  goes 
straight,  like  an  endless  strip  of  cloth,  and  it 
runs  and  runs,  until  at  last  it  appears  in  the 
horizon  as  a  narrow,  grey  ribbon.  .  .  .  The 
telegraph  posts  hum  their  monotonous 
song.  .  .  .  The  rattle  of  the  wagons  that 
pass  over  it  in  slow,  measured  steps  re- 
sounds afar.  ... 

I  see  a  little  boy  hurrying  over  it  ... 
happy  little  man !  He  is  hurrying  home  for 
his  vacation.  Behind  him  lies  the  dreary 


MAGDALEN  89 

series  of  days,  before  him,  eight  weeks  of 
bliss,  and  the  boy  weeps  with  joy  as  he  sees 
the  sparkling  spires  on  the  church  towers  he 
knows  so  well  ...  I  know  that  face  .  .  . 
I  see  by  its  faint  resemblance  that  it  is  my- 
self sixteen  years  ago.  .  .  . 

No,  reader,  I  will  not  write  here  an  elegy 
on  my  bygone  youth, —  it  was  only  a  sigh, 
and  enough  of  it.  Here,  in  this  abominable 
place  one  has,  indeed,  nothing  but  sighs  and 
recollections. 

The  coach  passed  Vysocany.  It  slowly 
ascended  a  serpentine  road.  The  two  ladies 
protected  themselves  with  parasols  against 
the  burning  rays  of  the  sun.  Jifi  was  sit- 
ting opposite  them,  his  hat  pulled  down  over 
his  brow,  and  leisurely  smoking  a  cigarette. 
Lucy  had  just  taken  off  the  heavy  veil  from 
her  face,  and  her  blue  eyes  looked  timidly 
around  her. 

The  coach  was  still  climbing  the  hill.  To- 
wards the  left  towered,  like  a  phantom  in 


90  MAGDALEN 

some  weird  story,  grey  Prague,  shrouded  in 
thick  smoke.  At  the  right  lay  the  open 
plain.  Burning  through  the  pure  air,  the 
gleaming  light  of  the  sun  trembled  upon 
it  like  fleeting  gold.  All  the  colors  were 
fresh  as  if  the  country  had  been  newly 
washed. 

Parallelograms  of  many  hues  ran,  nar- 
rowing down,  to  the  very  edge  of  the  hori- 
zon. The  railroad  track,  roads  with  dimin- 
utive rows  of  trees,  brown  hills,  villages  that 
seemed  to  be  drowning  in  the  verdure  of  gar- 
dens, farther  away  dark-blue  forests,  and 
still  farther,  blue  summits,  lightly  breathed 
upon  the  background, —  a  mere  airy  cur- 
tain,—  an  idyllic  panorama,  over  which 
white  cloudlets  softly  swam  in  the  azure 
vault  of  heaven.  Invisible  sky-larks  sent 
their  gladsome  shouts  into  the  clear  heights. 
On  both  sides  of  the  road  sounded  the  drum- 
mings  of  hosts  of  insects.  The  voices  of 
men,  the  neighing  of  horses,  the  sharp  click 
of  whips  now  and  then  reached  them  from 


MAGDALEN  91 

afar.  The  air  was  intensely  redolent  with 
intoxicating  freshness.  .  .  . 

Lucy  was  looking  fixedly  into  the  dis- 
tance,—  her  eye  did  not  take  in  the  details, 
but  her  soul  imbibed  its  full  import,  and  felt 
the  whole  summer  day  within  itself.  Under 
its  influence  her  spirit  bent  in  indolence,  but 
she  felt  blissful, —  it  was  the  feeling  of  an 
animal  that  after  a  cheerless,  cold  winter  is 
warmed  by  the  hot  sun.  She  did  not  recall 
what  had  lately  happened,  nor  thought  what 
would  come  in  the  future, —  but,  compress- 
ing her  long  eyelashes,  she  kept  on  looking 
and  looking.  .  .  . 

Reader,  only  a  woman  knows  how  to  live 
a  real  life!  For  her  there  is  no  past;  only 
at  times  there  flashes  an  old  picture  through 
her  spirit,  while  feeling  is  wisely  silent.  For 
her,  too,  there  exists  no  "to-morrow,"  except 
when  it  is  to  bring  her  a  happy  moment.  A 
woman  knows  how  to  be  happy.  To  us, 
happiness  is  a  flighty  dream,  a  flash  of  light. 
Her  delicate  nerves  seize  the  flighty  dream, 


92  MAGDALEN 

the  gleam  of  light,  and  gourmandize  on 
every  atom  of  it.  A  yielding  and  soft  soul 
lives  on  that  dream  and  light,  like  a  flower 
whose  leaves  turn  their  whole  surface  to- 
wards the  rays  of  the  sun.  If  it  is  uprooted 
and  transplanted,  it  at  once  sends  its  roots 
into  the  new  soil,  and  with  its  leaves  drinks 
the  sun,  the  sun.  .  .  . 

The  coach  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
All  around  lay  the  expanse  of  a  level  coun- 
try. At  both  sides  of  the  road  stood  the 
grain  in  greyish-green  waves.  There  the 
rape  seemed  to  shine  with  its  ducat  hue.  In 
the  straight-drawn  rows  of  beets  and  pota- 
toes stood  laboring  people ;  they  shaded  their 
eyes  with  their  hands,  conversed  with  each 
other,  and  looked  into  the  road. 

The  horses  began  to  trot.  An  endless 
avenue  of  chestnuts,  full  of  pyramidal  blos- 
soms, lay  before  them,  as  if  opened  for  their 
reception.  A  pleasant,  greenish  shade  fell 
into  the  carriage.  The  old  lady  looked  at 
the  country  through  a  black  lorgnette.  The 


MAGDALEN  93 

shade  refreshed  her.  She  saw  &ip,  and 
Jested,  and  Milesovka,  familiar  villages 
about  her,  and  familiar  roads,  and  she 
pointed  them  all  out  to  Lucy.  Thus  they 
travelled  on,  the  sunshine  now  and  then 
beaming  on  their  faces. 

Lucy  began  to  talk :  she  spoke  of  her  child- 
hood, and  of  the  country,  where  she  had 
lived, —  happy  recollections  bubbled  up  un- 
bidden in  her  soul. 

Jiff  was  silent.  Only,  from  time  to  time, 
he  complained  of  the  heat,  the  gnats,  and  the 
small  flies.  He  took  off  his  hat,  wiped  his 
forehead,  yawned,  and  continued  smoking. 
His  soul  was  like  a  house  from  which  people 
had  just  moved:  no  object,  no  picture,  no 
voices,  no  motion, —  only  a  wearisome 
calm.  .  .  . 

They  travelled  on.  A  village.  Again 
the  road.  Again  a  village.  A  small  pond. 
A  mill  nearby.  Off  the  road  grew  some 
small  trees,  cherry  and  plum  trees.  They 
travelled  on. 


94  MAGDALEN 

Suddenly  the  old  lady  pressed  Lucy's 
hand.  Two  rude  towers,  whose  gilded 
cupolas  sparkled  like  two  stars,  appeared  on 
the  horizon. 

"We  are  at  home  now,"  she  whispered. 

There  came  a  flash  like  lightning  in  Jif  i's 
eye,  then  he  yawned  again  until  the  tears 
came  to  his  eyes. 

The  horses  began  to  trot  faster,  without 
being  urged  on  by  words  or  whip  strokes,  as 
if  they  felt  the  goal  of  their  journey  to  be 
near. 


THE  town  of  the  realm  and  crown  has 
three  thousand  inhabitants,  one  church, 
twenty  inns,  a  brewery,  and  a  distillery,  and 
two  newspapers  which  appear  once  every 
two  weeks, —  the  ys  Gazette,  a  faith- 
ful organ  of  the  conservative  fathers  of  the 
town  and  The  Free  Citizen,  the  militant 
voice  of  the  ruthless  Opposition  (the  reader 
will  find  their  genesis  a  few  lines  farther 
down). 

The  common  is  large  and  beautiful,  the 
patrician  houses  about  it  forming  a  square. 
Above  them  rises  the  townhall  with  a  dilap- 
idated reddish  tower,  in  the  spire  of  which  a 
two-tailed  lion1  turns  with  the  wind.  In 
the  centre  there  is  a  stone  statue  of  Jan  of 

iThe  coat  of  arms  of  Bohemia. 
95 


96  MAGDALEN 

Nepomuk ; 1  once  a  year,  in  the  beautiful 
month  of  May,  he  is  painted  in  a  bright 
brown  color,  at  the  town's  expense. 

A  hunchbacked,  crooked  sidewalk  runs 
along  the  rows  of  houses,  and  is  intercepted 
by  malodorous  rills  that  flow  from  the  dwell- 
ings, and  that  form  a  filigree  stream  on  the 
common.  Throughout  the  day  an  old 
sweeper  heaps  small  piles  of  straw,  dust,  and 
dirt,  but  the  wind,  or  wanton  youths,  regu- 
larly disperse  them  at  nightfall. 

From  the  common  there  is  a  beautiful 
view  towards  the  west.  The  streets  lie 
somewhat  lower  here,  and  one  can  see 
through  them  the  cemetery  with  its  chapel 
and  its  crosses,  its  darkling  cypresses,  its 
grave-stones,  where  rest  in  peace  the  heroes 

i-A  canon  of  Prague  in  the  fourteenth  century,  who,  a 
pious  tradition  tells,  was  drowned  by  the  King  under 
the  bridge  of  Prague  for  not  divulging  the  confession 
of  his  wife,  Queen  Johanna.  He  was  canonized  a  saint 
in  1729,  since  which  time  he  has  been  regarded  as  the 
patron  saint  of  Bohemia.  Most  bridges  have  statues  of 
Jan  of  Nepomuk.  Pilgrimages  in  his  honor  are  made  in 
the  month  of  May. 


MAGDALEN  97 

of  local  tradition;  and  farther  off,  the  fields, 
the  rows  of  trees  along  the  roads,  and  brown 
cliffs.  In  one  place  the  surface  of  the  Elbe 
gleams  on  sunshiny  days.  Then  there  is  the 
blue  distance,  against  which  is  clearly  drawn 
the  bell  of  Hip  with  its  white  spire. 

The  pride  of  the  town  is  its  castle.  The 
extensive  and  massive  building  with  its 
tower,  covered  with  colored  tiles,  rises  majes- 
tically above  the  Elbe.  The  ages  that  have 
passed  through  it  have  here  left  their  traces : 
a  castle  moat,  strong  ramparts,  walls  pro- 
vided with  battlements,  old  windows,  coats 
of  arms  upon  the  wall,  dark  dungeons 
and  corridors;  and  in  the  old,  dilapidated 
park  are  mysterious  pavilions,  fountains, 
and  large  vases  with  moss-covered  Cupids. 
One  wing  of  the  castle  has  purely  mod- 
ern windows,  plush  curtains,  and  a  ther- 
mometer on  a  frame;  and  there,  in  the 
park,  you  suddenly  pass  from  the  ludicrous 
time  of  the  rococo  into  beds  of  verdure. 
Thus  does  the  silent  conglomerate  of  the 


98  MAGDALEN 

past  and  present  breathe  majestically  upon 
you. 

Here  the  lords  of  Krajek  once  held  sway 
over  the  Picards,1  and  pious  songs  then  hov- 
ered over  the  treetops  in  the  park.  From 
that  tower  pensive  Rudolf,  the  emperor, 
used  to  watch  the  course  of  the  stars  with 
master  Tycho.2  Banner3  sat  here  in  judg- 
ment,—  the  people  to  this  time  remember 
those  Swedish  scourges  and  his  minions. 
The  duchess  of  Berry  had  had  her  gallant 
adventures  in  the  park  during  moonlit 
nights, —  and  the  patrician  daughters  up  to 
this  day  like  to  visit  those  places,  where  they 
blush  and  sigh. 

The  park  was  thrown  open  to  the  town. 
The  owner  of  the  castle  lived  far  away. 
His  superintendent,  a  stolid  German,  dwelt 

1  Corruption  of  "Beghards";  thus  the  opponents  of  the 
Church    were    called    in    Bohemia    in    the    fourteenth    and 
fifteenth    centuries.    The    lords    of    Krajek    were   the    de- 
fenders  of   the    Brotherhood. 

2  Tycho  de   Brahe,  Danish   astronomer. 

3  Jan   Gustavson   Banner,   or   Bane>,   Swedish   field-mar- 
shal under  Gustavus  Adolphus. 


MAGDALEN  99 

in  the  wing  of  the  castle,  where  the  thermom- 
eter appeared  in  the  window.  He  was  ad- 
vanced in  years,  solemn  and  stern,  and  peo- 
ple avoided  him;  although  the  poor  and  the 
children,  by  an  old  custom,  kissed  his  hand 
when  they  came  near  him.  He  was  an  im- 
portant personage  in  the  life  of  that  town. 
He  was  not  active  in  the  townhall, —  for  that 
he  had  not  time  enough,  having  had  the  care 
of  the  estate  and  the  office  of  district  elder 
for  twenty-five  years ;  but,  being  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  burgomaster's,  he  was  an  ad- 
viser in  all  complicated  affairs. 

The  Free  Citizen  often  made  profane 
allusions  to  this :  the  town's  head,  it  said,  was 
in  the  townhall,  but  the  Holy  Ghost  was  in 
the  castle.  In  the  feuilleton  it  hinted  quite 
openly  between  the  lines  that  the  superin- 
tendent was  even  more  intimate  with  the 
fat  wife  of  the  burgomaster, —  however,  the 
whole  town  saw  nothing  incriminating  in 
that. 

A    new    bridge    runs    over    the    Elbe. 


100  MAGDALEN 

Through  a  beautiful  grove  of  lindens  and 
oaks,  whose  branches  meet  above  and  form  a 
fantastic,  rustling  vault,  one  passes  to  a 
neighboring  town.  Every  pious  soul  in 
Bohemia  is  thrilled  by  its  name:  it  is  a  holy 
place  for  pilgrims,  and  has  a  temple,  the 
sacred  image  of  which,  they  say,  has  wrought 
thousands  of  miracles.  To  this  day  a  chap- 
ter of  stout  priests  grows  fat  upon  the  visi- 
tors. Hundreds  of  these  holy  men  sit  the 
whole  autumn  and  winter  in  low  huts,  like 
spiders  in  their  hiding  places;  but  when  in 
summer  the  banners  of  the  country  people 
begin  to  be  unfurled,  and  songs  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  fill  the  air,  and  pious  women,  sturdy 
lads,  and  buxom  maidens  hasten  from  all 
parts  of  our  land  to  this  place, —  they  come 
forth  with  their  canvas  booths,  and  catch  the 
pious  souls,  and  suck  them  dry. 

Those  are  the  places  to  which  the  old  lady 
took  Lucy  the  day  after  their  arrival. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  seen  the  life  in  an 
ant  hill?  These  Philistine  insects  live  in  an 


MAGDALEN  101 

unvaried,  provincial  manner.  Everybody 
knows  everybody  else,  and  everybody  has  his 
precise  daily  work  to  do.  They  go  out  in  the 
morning,  meet  friends,  their  feelers  touch, 
as  if  they  were  telling  their  last  night's 
dreams,  their  trifling  gossip,  and  the  news  of 
the  day,  and  they  move  on,  and  again  meet 
some  one  else,  and  again  stand  a  while  and 
talk,  and  then  hurry  on. 

They  know  every  motion  of  each  other's 
bodies,  every  minutest  shade  of  their  souls, 
everything  connected  with  their  past, —  and 
yet  a  sweet  habit  urges  them  in  passing  to 
talk  again  and  again  of  the  same  thing,  as 
yesterday,  so  to-day,  and  so  to-morrow. 
They  somehow  finish  their  work,  as  though 
it  were  of  secondary  importance.  In  the 
evening  they  return  to  their  ant  hill,  and 
again  they  gather  by  twos,  threes  or  fours 
upon  their  sidewalks  and  at  the  doorsteps, 
where  they  stand  conversing  pleasantly  until 
deep  into  the  night. 

What  an  uproar,  if  something  from  with- 


102  MAGDALEN 

out  falls  among  them!  They  run  around 
wildly  and  inquisitively,  neglecting  their 
daily  toil;  their  feelers  are  in  a  convulsive 
tremor;  they  are  curious;  they  congregate 
and  discuss  matters;  the  more  courageous 
rush  upon  that  object,  and  investigate  it 
from  all  sides,  touch  it,  and  again  run  away 
to  take  counsel,  their  little  heads  shaking  all 
the  time. 

The  news  ran  like  lightning  through  the 
town,:  Jifi  had  arrived  with  his  aunt,  and 
they  had  brought  with  them  a  strange  young 
lady.  Who  was  she?  Who  was  she?  She 
was  not  of  the  family,  for  in  the  town  they 
knew  well  the  genealogies  of  all  its  members ; 
so  there  flew  over  the  city  fantastic  stories, 
guesses,  anecdotes,  which  those  who  con- 
cocted them  could  not  themselves  believe. 

There  was  not  a  window  in  the  whole 
town,  where,  if  the  ladies  passed  by,  a  head 
with  its  critical  pair  of  eyes  did  not  appear. 
Whoever  met  them  in  the  street,  on  the  com- 
mon, or  in  the  castle  park,  stopped  and 


MAGDALEN  103 

looked  around,  and,  finding  a  friend,  stood 
long  talking  with  him. 

In  the  afternoon,  about  two  o'clock,  the 
fat  wife  of  the  burgomaster  ventured  out  of 
the  house.  The  peony-colored  velvet  of  her 
gown,  the  light  gloves  that  reached  to  her 
elbows,  her  hat  full  of  nodding  cherries, 
flowers,  and  many-colored  feathers,  an- 
nounced to  all  good  people  some  errand  of 
great  importance.  It  was  a  hot  day. 
Pearls  of  perspiration,  gathering  in  two 
streams  under  her  eyes,  ran  down  her  plump 
cheeks.  She  walked  under  the  dark-red 
shade  of  her  parasol  with  a  small,  unwaver- 
ing step,  as  though  she  were  sailing,  nodding 
her  head  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  thank- 
ing all  polite  people  with  a  "Guten  Tag" 
and  a  "How  are  you?" 

Jifi's  house  bordered  with  its  back  wall 
upon  the  castle  park,  and  fronted  on  the 
open  country.  The  burgomaster's  wife  en- 
tered the  spacious  yard.  She  did  not  see 
any  other  creature  but  chickens,  geese, 


104  MAGDALEN 

ducks,  a  flock  of  sparrows,  and  a  few  pigeons 
that  were  flying  about  a  round  dove-cot.  In 
the  sultry  air  was  the  odor  of  the  stable  and 
the  aroma  of  hay.  The  burgomistress  strut- 
ted by  the  steward's  dwelling  to  the  one- 
story  building  in  the  back  of  the  yard.  A 
woman  came  out  of  it  and,  seeing  her,  wiped 
her  hands  on  her  apron,  and  ran  up  to  her 
to  kiss  her  hand. 

"The  Lord  protect  you,  never  mind,  never 
mind!"  and  the  burgomistress  graciously  ex- 
tended her  hand.  "Is  the  councilor  ess  at 
home?" 

"Yes,  if  you  please,  gracious  lady" 
( "counciloress"  was  the  title  of  Jiffs  aunt). 

"Mr.  Jifi?" 

"He  is  at  home,  too,  gracious  lady.  He 
is  busy  with  the  steward,  writing  some  ac- 
counts. The  master  wants  to  take  the  estate 
into  his  own  hands.  He  wants  to  remain 
here.  They  are  figuring  up." 

"And  that  young  lady?    Who  is  she?" 

"I   do   not   know,   gracious   lady.     One 


MAGDALEN  105 

might  think  she  would  be  the  lady's 
daughter,  but  she  is  not.  I  really  do  not 
know.  They  are  together  there.  .  .  ." 
"Very  well,  very  well,  that  will  do.  .  .  ." 
It  was  a  large  whitewashed  room.  A  few 
chairs,  a  table,  a  large  safe  of  dark  oak  with 
carved  ornaments,  were  its  only  furniture. 
On  the  wall  were  hung  oil  paintings  of  Hus 
and  Zizka;  between  them,  on  a  pedestal, 
stood  a  statue  of  Podebrad, —  Jifi's  father 
had  here  passed  the  greater  half  of  his  life, — 
and  those  pictures  and  furniture  were  remi- 
niscences of  him. 

The  old  lady  was  sitting  with  Lucy  at  the 
open  window.  Outside,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  house,  was  a  field  of  clover.  Dande- 
lions with  their  ducat  hue  burst  everywhere 
through  the  dark  verdure.  Crickets  were 
chirping  merrily  in  the  grass.  Lucy  was 
thoughtlessly  holding  a  long,  narrow  book 
in  old  leather  binding  and  gilt  ornamenta- 
tion. The  old  lady  had  found  it  for  her.  It 
was  the  faithful  companion  of  her  youth, — 


106  MAGDALEN 

"Novalis."    And  the  old  lady  sighed  softly: 

"Read  it,  child!  Ah,  that  Heinrich  of 
Of terdingen !  Blaue  Blume!  Just  read  it ! 
I  used  to  read  them  all  night  long." 

The  burgomistress  entered. 

A  loud  exclamation:  "Ah,  Frau  Rathin!" 

"Ah,  Frau  Burgermeisterin!" 

They  embraced  each  other.  There  fell 
cataracts  of  indistinguishable  words.  Fi- 
nally the  burgomistress  seated  herself. 
With  a  rapid  glance  she  measured  the 
maiden  two  or  three  times,  and  the  aunt 
caught  her  look. 

"My  Lucy,"  she  introduced  her. 

"Ah,  I  am  happy,  's  freut  mich,  Js  freut 
mich,  will  she  stay  long  with  us?" 

Lucy  blushed. 

"Forever,  forever,"  the  aunt  hastened  to 
reply. 

"The  young  lady  used  to  live  in  Prague?" 

"Yes,  in  Prague,"  Lucy  said  hurriedly. 

"I  do  not  know  how  Miss  Lucy  will  like 
this  life  of  ours.  It  is  a  wearisome,  small, 


MAGDALEN  107 

dead,  uninteresting  country,  and  we  are 
plain  people, —  Miss  Lucy,  I  suppose,  has 
been  used  to  a  different  sphere.  .  .  ." 

"No,"  the  old  lady  interrupted  her,  "my 
Lucy  will  be  entirely  happy  here.  This 
country  will  soothe  her  nerves  which  are 
somewhat  shattered.  .  .  ." 

"In  that  case,  Miss  Lucy,  you  will  find 
health  here.  In  that  case,  indeed.  We  live 
an  idyllic  life  here.  We  arrange  picnics, 
games, —  oh,  dare  I  ask  you?  Are  you  not, 
perchance,  betrothed,  and  ought  I  not  to 
congratulate?  I  suppose,  Mr.  Jifi  .  .  ." 

Lucy  was  consumed  with  internal  fire. 

"The  Lord  protect  her,"  the  old  lady 
quickly  interrupted  her,  "that  would  be  a 
nice  match  for  her!  Sooner  would  I  tie  a 
stone  about  her  neck  with  my  own  hands  and 
drown  her  there  in  the  Elbe.  Aber  sag  en 
Sie  mir,  liebe,  werthe  Burgermeisterin, 
what's  the  news?  How  is  the  town?  How 
are  our  acquaintances?" 

"Ach,  Frau  Rathin,"  the  burgomistress 


108  MAGDALEN 

drew  a  deep  breath  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  "a  great  deal  of  news,  a  great  deal. 
Just  think  of  it,  the  doctor's  wife  .  .  ." 
(that  doctor,  the  head  of  the  local  opposi- 
tion, the  editor  of  the  Citizen,  was  a  sworn 
enemy  of  the  burgomaster),  "well,  she  is  a 
woman  without  shame, —  she  was  seen  lately 
in  the  woods  in  a  dreadfully  intimate  tete  a 
tete  with  the  adjunct!  You  know,  she  has 
had  experience  in  such  things,  and  God 
knows,  how  many  times!  However,  at 
times  I  think  that  that  is  a  family  character- 
istic. Denken  Sie  sich,  the  doctor  looks 
calmly  at  all  that  is  going  on, —  of  course, 
it's  a  case  of  bad  conscience !  Frau  Rathin, 
last  week  he  had  to  send  the  chambermaid  to 
Prague !  Just  think  of  it,  it  is  he  who  is  the 
town  moralist!  He  wants  to  stain  my 
honor !  His  paper  wrote  lately, —  it  is  a 
shame  to  mention  it, —  about  me,  about  me 
and  our  administrator!  What  meanness!" 
The  wife  of  the  town's  head  blushed  crim- 
son from  her  forehead  to  her  neck.  Then 


MAGDALEN  109 

there  followed  disgusting  and  scandalous 
stories,  and  the  whole  local  Opposition  stood 
in  half  an  hour  in  soiled  negligee.  "This 
one  thing  may,  however,  console  us,"  ended 
the  burgomistress,  "our  whole  party  is  in  this 
respect  as  pure  as  crystal.  .  .  ." 

She  several  times  made  attempts  to  pene- 
trate the  shell  under  which  was  hidden  the 
mysterious  kernel  of  the  strange  young  lady, 
but  all  in  vain, —  so  she  betook  herself  once 
more  to  the  turbid  stream  in  which  the  local 
life  flowed. 

She  remained  two  hours. 

"So,  Frau  Rathin,  I  bid  you  good-bye. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Lucy,  we  shall  see  each 
other  at  some  picnic.  We  will  drum  up 
something  soon." 

Elated,  as  every  person  is,  who  has  found 
a  mote  in  his  neighbor's  eye,  the  burgo- 
mistress went  out  of  the  door  like  a  peacock 
in  noisy  conceit. 

"You  see,  Lucy,  what  she  is,"  sighed  the 
old  lady.  "Just  watch:  to-day  or  to-mor- 


110  MAGDALEN 

row  will  come  her  rival,  the  doctor's  wife; 
and  again  you  will  hear  precisely  the  same 
thing,  only  the  names  will  be  changed.  But 
the  saddest  thing  about  all  this  is,  that  it 
will  be  the  truth,  just  as  what  was  told  to- 
day was  the  truth.  It  is  a  terrible  world! 
It  was  quite  different  in  my  day!" 

Lucy  awoke  from  her  dreaming,  for  until 
then  she  was  looking  meditatively  at  the 
waving  clover. 

"But,  Aunty,  what  is  it  all  about? 
Whence  comes  all  that  hostility  between  the 
ladies?" 

"Well,  that  is  a  fine  story, —  really,  it  is 
amusing.  A  few  years  ago  the  two,  the  doc- 
tor's and  the  burgomaster's  wives,  lived  in 
great  friendship,  like  two  sisters.  The  third 
in  their  company  was  the  wife  of  the  judge, 
—  she  is  dead  now.  These  three  were  to- 
gether everywhere,  at  parties,  at  outings,  at 
games,  and  they  made  matches  among  them- 
selves for  their  children,  while  they  were 


MAGDALEN  111 

still  in  their  cribs, —  in  short,  their  friendship 
became  a  byword.  Then  the  judge  was 
made  a  councillor  in  some  district  court. 
Their  friendship  continued.  The  doctor's 
wife  and  the  burgomistress  wrote  daily  let- 
ters to  the  wife  of  the  councillor.  So  it  went 
on  for  two  or  three  years. 

"The  councillor's  wife  died.  The  coun- 
cillor, who  was  a  wag  and  a  malicious  old 
satyr,  sent  the  two  friends  a  large  box  in 
remembrance  of  his  wife.  They  called  to- 
gether a  few  young  women,  and  opened  it, 
sighing  and  sobbing  all  the  time.  There 
were  two  packages  within,  with  the  inscrip- 
tions: 'For  the  burgomistress,'  'For  the 
doctoress.'  The  ladies  were  divided  into 
two  groups.  The  packages  were  carefully 
opened :  within  were  letters,  nothing  but  let- 
ters! Those  which  the  burgomistress  had 
written  to  the  wife  of  the  councillor  were 
now  given  to  the  doctoress,  and  vice  versa! 
Do  not  ask  me  how  that  scene  ended !  It  is 


112  MAGDALEN 

a  wonder  they  did  not  fall  to  fighting!  All 
the  letters,  from  a  to  z}  were  nothing  but 
calumny,  gossip,  dastardly  stories, —  in  fact, 
each  had  told  the  worst  about  the  other! 
The  next  day  the  town  was  full  of  it,  and 
there  was  turmoil  and  agitation,  as  if  a  revo- 
lution had  broken  out!  From  that  day  the 
two  hate  each  other  as  their  sins.  And  the 
excitement  kept  on  growing. 

"Their  husbands  took  part  in  it.  The 
doctor  and  the  burgomaster,  who  had  been 
friends  heretofore,  transferred  the  quarrel 
to  the  townhall,  and  into  the  affairs  of  the 
town.  The  doctor  began  calling  himself  a 
'Young  Bohemian,'  .and  the  burgomaster 
—  an  'Old  Bohemian.'  *  The  doctor  started 
a  paper,  and  in  it  thundered  every 
two  weeks.  Naturally  the  burgomaster, 
too,  vaulted  into  the  saddle,  and  founded  his 
paper.  They  are  fighting  to  the  knife.  .  .  . 
Speak  of  angels, —  do  you  see  that  slender 

iTwo  political  parties  of  Bohemia;  they  are  humorously 
described  on  pp.  204-205. 


MAGDALEN  113 

lady  over  there?"  She  pointed  across  the 
cloverpatch  and  the  field  to  the  road. 
"That  is  the  doctoress.  She  is  coming  to 
see  us.  So  be  prepared.  .  .  ." 


VI 

BETWEEN  the  Elbe  and  the  nearby 
forests  lies  an  expanse  of  blooming 
meadows,  and  through  the  middle  of  these 
runs  a  narrow,  sandy  path.  On  that  path 
there  moved  a  slow  and  long  procession  of 
undulating  parasols, —  one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six, —  you  might  have  counted  thirty  of 
them.  The  bright  toilets  of  the  ladies 
gleamed  in  the  sun,  while  to  the  right  and 
left  of  them,  and  half  turned  towards  them, 
skipped  their  gallants,  balancing  their  canes. 
The  sun  poured  like  fire  from  the  blue- 
grey  heavens  upon  that  meadow.  The  earth 
was  burning  under  foot.  The  dusky  blades 
of  grass  hung  down  as  though  scorched. 
The  flowers  drooped,  as  though  broken. 
Strong,  heavy  odors  were  wafted  through 
the  air.  Crickets  uttered  their  hellish  din, 

114 


MAGDALEN  115 

as  though  millions  of  drops  of  molten  metal 
were  beating  against  a  glass  pane. 

The  stouter  ladies  of  the  gathering  were 
drawing  their  handkerchiefs  over  their  faces, 
and  kept  on  saying:  "What  weather! 
But  it  is  hot  to-day !" 

The  light-haired,  blue-eyed  patrician 
daughters  walked  about,  overflowing  with 
happiness.  For  them  such  a  picnic  was,  in- 
deed, a  holiday.  Each  old  joke  and  stupid 
anecdote  of  their  gallant  cavaliers  was  re- 
warded with  a  grateful  smile.  Their  empty, 
trifling  life  was  to  have  a  new  landmark  with 
that  day.  They  would  say  of  future  events : 
"That  happened  two  weeks,  a  month,  two 
months  after  the  picnic.  ..." 

Poor  patrician  daughters!  Until  they 
are  fourteen  they  sit  in  their  short  dresses, 
their  hair  combed  back,  on  the  school- 
benches  of  their  towns.  Then,  by  an  old 
custom,  they  are  sent  to  the  pious  sisters  at 
Zakupy.  By  Christmas  their  mothers,  with 
tears  of  joy,  are  able  to  show  their  daugh- 


116  MAGDALEN 

ters'  cleanly  written  congratulations  in  pure 
German.  So  pass  two  years,  when  they  re- 
turn in  long,  old-fashioned  gowns,  their  hair 
combed  over  their  foreheads,  and  two  braids 
hanging  behind,  their  eyes  continually 
turned  earthward,  and  their  heads  filled  with 
information. 

The  happy  mother  now  leads  her  daugh- 
ter into  society.  They  call  on  the  adminis- 
trator, the  burgomaster,  on  all  the  aldermen, 
on  all  the  local  dignitaries.  The  daughter 
is  as  quiet  and  as  modest  as  a  violet.  Her 
mother  is  beaming:  her  child  expresses  her- 
self faultlessly.  She  has  brought  with  her 
from  the  nuns  a  lot  of  holy  pictures  for  dili- 
gence and  good  behavior.  She  is  helpful 
to  her  in  the  house,  with  the  washing,  the 
cooking,  and  the  ironing.  She  secretly 
makes  a  pair  of  colored  slippers  as  a  holiday 
gift  for  her  father.  At  about  five  o'clock 
each  afternoon,  with  her  prayer-book  in  her 
hand,  she  crosses  the  bridge  that  leads  to  the 
other  town,  and  there,  after  the  blessing, 


MAGDALEN  117 

always  kneels  in  the  church,  before  the  mira- 
cle-working image. 

Three  months,  or  half  a  year  later,  a 
change  suddenly  conies  over  her:  the  braids 
disappear,  the  hair  over  her  forehead  is 
clipped ;  her  gown  is  made  according  to  the 
latest  fashion;  she  gives  her  holy  pictures 
to  her  younger  relatives ;  on  Sunday  she  still 
goes  to  the  church  of  the  Virgin,  but  it  is 
only  from  habit.  She  finds  new  friends  to 
whom,  after  two  weeks'  acquaintance,  she 
vows  eternal  friendship,  though  it  only  lasts 
a  month. 

She  keeps  a  diary,  in  which  she  writes 
every  occurrence.  An  itinerant  dancing 
master  initiates  her  in  his  art,  and  once  a 
year,  during  carnival-time,  she  goes  with 
her  mother  to  Prague,  to  attend  the  Stu- 
dents' Ball.  She  is  fond  of  reading,  and 
her  mother,  who  does  not  want  her  to  for- 
get her  convent  knowledge,  subscribes  for 
the  Gartenlaube.  She  often  weeps  over 
her  reading,  and  she  devours  Mrs.  Werner 


118  MAGDALEN 

and  Mrs.  Heimburg,  as  her  mother,  once 
upon  a  time,  used  to  devour  Marlitt. 

Of  our  poets  she  values  the  poems  of 
Jablonsky  x  and  Halek.2 

She  borrows  them  somewhere,  sighs  over 
them,  and  in  a  clear  hand-writing  copies 
them  into  a  gilt-edged  album.  Two  hours 
daily  she  sews  for  her  trousseau,  doing  this 
in  good  faith,  filled  with  expectations. 

In  the  evening  she  takes  a  walk  on  the 
common  with  her  girl  friends,  exchanging 
confidences  with  them,  their  anxieties,  their 
dreams,  but  not  all  of  them:  in  the  depth 
of  her  little  soul  some  hero  is  always  hidden, 
a  baron,  a  count,  a  dignitary,  perhaps  a  doc- 
tor. She  has  two  or  three  platonic  love  af- 
fairs with  students;  she  is  protected  from 
the  pitfalls  and  persecutions  of  the  provin- 
cial Don  Juans,  not  by  the  eye  of  her  mother, 
though  she  keeps  a  sharp  lookout  on  her, 


i  Boleslav    Jablonsk^    (pseud,    of    Karel    Eugen 
was  born   1813. 

2Vftezslav     Halek     (1835-1874),     a    prolific     poet     and 
dramatist. 


MAGDALEN  119 

but  by  her  inborn  shrewdness.  .  .  .  Thus 
the  years  pass  by. 

In  their  twenty-fourth  year,  our  patrician 
girls  begin  to  fade.  They  realize  it,  and 
withdraw  from  publicity:  with  poisoned 
resignation  they  again  attend  the  church; 
down  to  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they  de- 
spise those  younger  companions  who  are 
still  in  full  bloom.  Their  tongues  are  the 
terror  of  the  whole  town. 

It  is  quite  different,  however,  if  the  cau- 
tious mother  finds  a  husband  for  her  daugh- 
ter: they  come  to  terms,  and  the  obedient 
daughter  exchanges  the  hero  of  her  dreams 
for  a  common,  every-day  bourgeois,  and  is 
happy  that  she  has  escaped  the  preposterous 
fate  of  an  old  maid. 

She  lives.  .  .  .  The  silenced  heart  begins 
suddenly  to  rebel ;  she  subdues  it  for  a  while, 
but  immediately  throws  herself  into  the  first 
open  arms, —  the  voice  of  conscience  does  not 
chide  her,  for  do  not  all  the  others  live  the 
same  way?  With  all  that,  she  remains  a 


120  MAGDALEN 

decent,  exemplary  woman,  properly  manag- 
ing her  house,  caring  well  for  her  husband, 
and  bringing  up  her  children  as  well  as  her 
mother  had  brought  up  hers;  and  she  grows 
stout,  and  is  honored  by  the  whole  town. 

Old  loves  of  the  spring  of  my  life,  my 
faded  reminiscences!  You  are  wretched, 
patrician  girls! 

Young  bureaucrats,  sons  of  the  townsmen, 
who  were  helping  their  fathers  in  their  es- 
tates, or  in  their  stores,  and  whose  houses 
declared  themselves  for  the  ruling  party, 
were  busy  amusing  the  young  ladies.  Jifi, 
with  the  composure  of  an  older  man,  strolled 
by  the  side  of  the  burgomistress.  The 
burgomistress  was  retailing  to  him  all  her 
spicy  stories  about  all  the  known  and  un- 
known people  of  the  other  party.  Jifi 
laughed  from  time  to  time,  like  any  civil 
person,  or  said  something  to  her,  but  he  was 
in  the  meantime  thinking  of  his  mill  and  es- 
tate. 

He  had  departed  from  his  life  at  Prague 


MAGDALEN  121 

in  despair  and  with  a  heavy  heart.  When 
the  coach  drove  into  the  yard  of  the  home  in 
which  he  was  born,  a  great  idea  struck  him : 
he  would  peacefully  look  after  his  father's 
estate,  would  watch  the  field  work,  would 
himself  keep  the  accounts, —  strangers  were 
all  the  time  cheating  him, —  he  would  work 
to  fatigue  during  the  day,  and  would  lie 
down  in  peace  at  night, —  a  breath  of  Ver- 
gil's idyls  was  in  all  these  dreams  and  plans. 
He  fell  in  love  with  his  new  occupation,  and 
he  appeared  to  himself  to  be  greater  and 
better,  which  comforted  him  very  much.  He 
did  not  consider  what  would  be  later,  ex- 
cept that  he  would  take  everything  into  his 
hands,  and  manage  the  estate.  He  man- 
aged,—  while  his  servants  looked  in  dismay 
at  most  of  his  orders,  without  daring  to  dis- 
suade him.  And  Jifi  kept  on  making  new 
plans. 

The  burgomistress  referred  several  times 
to  Lucy,  as  if  by  chance,  but  Jiri  answered 
her  questions  evasively. 


122  MAGDALEN 

He  was  tired  of  his  relations  to  Lucy.  In 
the  depth  of  his  soul  he  felt  that,  though  he 
had  acted  foolishly,  he  had  done  the  proper 
thing.  Lucy  was  now  living  in  retirement, 
unknown  to  any  one ;  she  was  the  whole  life 
of  his  aunt,  to  whom  he  owed  so  much,  and 
that  was  well.  "Tis  true,  the  enchantment 
which  had  once  blinded  his  eye  had  paled: 
he  looked  at  her  now  with  an  entirely  differ- 
ent eye, —  with  the  eye  of  a  man  that  sur- 
veys a  maiden's  attractive  body. 

When  he  saw  her  bending  over  a  book  or 
some  sewing,  her  full  bosom  heaving  in  even 
measure,  he  felt  a  mad  desire  to  embrace 
her,  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms, —  but  he  only 
passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  and  chided 
himself  with  scornful  irony.  Otherwise,  her 
whole  presence  annoyed  him.  When  they 
were  together,  the  weight  of  her  soul  fell 
upon  him.  He  always  felt  something 
stronger  and  purer  in  her,  and  that  annoyed 
him.  Before  his  eyes  hovered  her  past,  but 
in  vain;  at  last,  in  his  vanity,  he  convinced 


MAGDALEN  123 

himself  that  it  was  he  who  had  transformed 
and  purified  her,  that  it  was  he  who  had  re- 
turned her  to  the  world  so  peaceful  and 
so  strong, —  and  he  proudly  raised  his 
head. 

The  vanguard  of  picnickers  had  already 
entered  under  the  vault  of  the  woods,  and 
they  were  breathing  more  at  ease. 

Lucy,  clinging  to  the  aunt,  walked  close 
behind  her.  The  judge's  wife  was  enter- 
taining her.  She  was  a  Prague  lady  whose 
husband's  fate  had  brought  her  to  this  nest. 
She  was  longing  to  return,  and  she  was  talk- 
ing of  her  Prague  acquaintances  and  of  fa- 
miliar places.  She  spoke  rapidly  and  in 
abrupt  sentences.  The  aunt  barely  had  a 
chance  to  get  in  a  word  or  a  short  sentence. 
Lucy  was  silent.  She  was  fatigued,  partly 
from  the  heat,  partly  from  the  occurrences 
of  the  last  few  days.  The  feelers  of  the 
whole  local  ant  hill  had  touched  her  all  over, 
—  Oh,  those  terrible  moments !  She  felt  like 
a  thief  hiding  with  his  booty,  while  the  steps 


124  MAGDALEN 

of  his  persecutors  are  heard  all  the  time 
around  his  hiding  place. 

They  had  all  come:  the  wives  of  the  judge, 
of  the  tax  collector,  of  the  doctor,  and  of 
four  aldermen,  and  three  portly  widows, —  in 
short,  all  the  somebodies.  Their  inquisitive, 
quick  eyes  and  glib  tongues  kept  prodding 
her,  and  the  good  old  lady  warded  off  their 
attacks  with  remarkable  dexterity.  Lucy 
trembled  with  terror  at  the  thought  that  they 
might  find  all  out. 

How  different  this  new  life  appeared  to 
her  now!  She  felt  it,  she  lived  it  with  the 
whole  power  of  her  soul;  but  she  trembled 
with  burning  shame  at  the  pictures  from  the 
past,  which,  unbidden,  at  times  flashed  be- 
fore her  soul's  eye.  She  was  pure,  but  some- 
thing was  lacking,  she  did  not  herself  know 
what,  or  how  to  name  it, —  some  goal  towards 
which  to  aim,  some  purpose  for  which  to  live. 
The  horror  of  this  vacuum  frightened  her 
at  night,  when  she  looked  from  her  bed 
through  the  open  window  at  the  stars,  or 


MAGDALEN  125 

when  she  suddenly  heard  the  mournful  song 
of  the  chorus  of  frogs  in  the  nearby  pond. 

She  had  come  to  the  picnic  only  to  please 
the  old  lady,  whose  dim  old  eyes  were  all  the 
time  turned  watchfully  upon  her,  with  the 
suspicion  that  the  country  ennui  was  oppress- 
ing the  dear  young  soul.  The  company  met 
in  front  of  the  old  castle.  All  the  local  gal- 
lants beset  Lucy  with  clever  speeches  upon 
their  lips.  They  were  all  so  abominably 
funny!  Lucy  felt  like  a  strange  hen  that 
had  gotten  into  a  flock  of  cocks,  that  aban- 
doned their  hens,  their  familiar,  good  old 
hens,  and  ran  to  her.  They  beat  the  earth 
oddly  with  their  wings,  strutted  about 
proudly,  drove  away  their  rivals,  and  crowed 
their  merriest.  The  icy  coldness  of  her  eyes 
repelled  them.  They  returned  to  the  good 
patrician  daughters  who  looked  at  her  with 
jealous  eyes. 

The  picnickers  reached  the  place  agreed 
upon, —  a  slope  in  the  shade  of  oaks.  They 
seated  themselves  in  the  thick  grass.  Here 


126  MAGDALEN 

the  air  was  even  hotter  than  in  the  open. 
The  mothers  took  pears  and  candy  out  of 
their  bags.  The  gallants  brought  water 
from  a  nearby  well.  Brows  and  faces  were 
shining  with  perspiration.  Jif  i,  too,  brought 
a  glass  of  water.  Lucy  drank  it.  The  old 
lady  handed  her  children  some  cold  pigeon. 
They  ate.  The  elder  ladies  seated  them- 
selves also.  Only  the  burgomistress  was 
walking  about  among  the  young  people,  and 
she  called  out  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Frau  von  Fischmeister,  please,  take  these 
young  people  under  your  wing!" 

The  alderman's  wife,  Frau  von  Fischmeis- 
ter, arose, —  she  was  a  dried-up  woman,  with 
masculine  features, —  she  called  the  young 
ladies  and  the  gentlemen  together  into  a  cir- 
cle, and  gave  them  a  short  talk  on  the  game 
of  "secretary."  Then  they  began  to  play. 
They  sat  around  in  the  grass,  and  each  one 
wrote  a  statement  on  a  small  slip.  Frau 
von  Fischmeister  led  the  game.  Lucy  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  take  part  in  it,  but  sat 


MAGDALEN  127 

at  one  side  with  the  aunt.  The  old  lady 
followed  the  familiar  game  with  interest,  and 
she  laughed,  as  she  leaned  on  Lucy's  arm. 
Jiff,  who  was  sitting  near  the  slender  daugh- 
ter of  the  tax  collector,  at  first  hesitated,  but 
finally  joined  the  game. 

That  charming  blonde,  with  eyes  as  blue 
as  cornflowers,  and  with  beautiful  sunburnt 
hands,  took  her  hat  off  while  she  played.  By 
accident  Jiff  leaned  over  her  head  and 
breathed  in  the  intense  perfume  of  the  pom- 
atum which  her  hair  exhaled.  He  breathed 
it  again,  and  a  third  time.  She  turned  her 
eyes  a  little  towards  Jiff,  and  he  saw  some- 
thing mysterious  flash  in  them  as  though 
hundreds  of  tiny  gnomes  were  dancing  there 
in  sparkling  violet  garments.  A  sweet  feel- 
ing set  all  his  nerves  atremble.  He  said 
something  to  her.  She  smiled.  The  direc- 
tress called  her  to  order.  They  went  on 
playing. 

The  directress  again  invited  Lucy,  and  the 
aunt,  too,  urged  her  to  play.  Lucy  arose, 


128  MAGDALEN 

looking  almost  out  of  sorts.  The  directress 
arranged  a  "Blind  man's  buff,"  the  blind 
man's  part  falling  to  Jifi.  He  was  blind- 
folded and  the  circle  dispersed  with  loud 
laughter,  but  Jifi,  with  eager  eyes,  had  none 
the  less  time  to  notice  the  direction  which 
the  slender  blonde  had  taken.  He  ran  after 
her  through  the  thick  grass.  She  stood  still 
.  .  .  she  did  not  move  ...  he  was  already 
near  her  .  .  .  yet  she  did  not  move  ...  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  .  .  .  she  quickly 
slapped  it  hard,  and  ran  away.  .  .  . 

Then  Lucy  withdrew  with  slow  step, — 
something  drove  her  away  from  that  strange 
merriment.  She  looked  around  her.  She 
was  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  pine  wood. 
The  white  dresses  of  the  picnickers  flashed 
by  behind  her.  She  increased  her  steps,  and 
hurried  on :  the  strong  odor  of  the  balsam  was 
soothing  to  her,  and  she  inhaled  it  with  a 
deep  breath.  At  the  same  time  she  wiped 
the  thin  threads  of  cobwebs  from  her  face 
and  looked  around  her  once  more. 


MAGDALEN  129 

Everything  was  silent.  She  saw  only  the 
red  shining  trunks  of  the  old  firs. 

She  wanted  to  walk  on,  but  she  suddenly 
stopped  in  terror, —  it  was  strange,  she  did 
not  cry  out, —  before  her,  on  a  large  grey 
plaid  under  a  tree,  lay  a  man,  looking  calmly 
and  steadily  at  her.  His  large  dark-brown 
eyes  looked  askance,  as  those  of  a  man  in 
the  habit  of  reading  falsehoods.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  fire  in  those  dark,  fallen  sock- 
ets, and  the  green  shade  of  the  tree  gave  a 
ghost-like  appearance  to  the  lean,  waxen 
face,  which  was  covered  with  a  beard  of 
sparse  brown  hair.  His  pale  lips  were 
closed.  Thus  did  that  strange  man  look  at 
her  without  a  word,  without  a  movement. 

In  terror,  and  spellbound  by  his  glance, 
Lucy  asked  him  ( she  could  think  of  nothing 
else  then) :  "Are  you  a  picnicker,  too?" 

The  stranger  answered  softly:     "Yes." 

"Of  our  party?" 

"Of  yours  ?    Which  is  that  ?" 

"The  burgomistress'.  .  .  ." 


130  MAGDALEN 

"Ha,  ha,"  he  hissed  as  he  laughed,  "a  good 
guess !  So  there  is  some  one  who  has  a  bet- 
ter opinion  of  me!  Well,  thanks!  I,  who 
am  declared  a  fool  by  my  own  community, 
am  taken  to  be  at  a  picnic  of  the  best  society ! 
No,  I  am  here  my  own  picnicker!"  and  he 
fell  to  coughing.  "My  good  old  mother 
thinks  that  these  trees  will  restore  my  af- 
fected lung!"  He  cleared  his  throat,  and 
stretched  himself  as  though  fatigued  by  that 
speech.  "I  am  just  doing  so  to  please 
her  .  .  ."  and  he  coughed  again. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  and  do  not  talk," 
Lucy  said,  imploringly,  clenching  her  hands. 

He  laughed  aloud:  "Ah,  a  human  being 
that  has  sympathy  for  me !" 

"Do  you  not  believe  it?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  You  pity  me,  but  in  your 
heart  you  whisper  to  yourself :  Lord,  I  will 
give  thanks  to  you  to-day  that  I  am  not  in 
the  same  fix  as  that  fellow." 

"Do  not  believe  that!"  Lucy  exclaimed, 


MAGDALEN  131 

provoked.  "I  will  tell  you  what  I  think.  I 
should  wish  to  be  .  .  ." 

"...  in  your  place !"  he  added  laughingly. 
For  a  while  he  could  not  proceed  on  account 
of  coughing.  "So  does  every  girl  say  before 
her  twenty-fourth  year." 

There  was  a  moment  of  quiet.  Lucy 
looked  fixedly  into  his  eyes,  while  a  super- 
human and  terrible  power  was  working  in 
her  soul ;  then  she  asked  him  softly : 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"Lucy!  Lucy!"  the  quavering  voice  of 
the  old  lady  sounded  through  the  woods. 
Lucy  looked  around  her.  A  mist  hung  over 
her  eyes.  The  old  lady,  the  burgomistress, 
and  the  judge's  wife  were  hastening  in  her 
direction. 

"Good-bye,  good-bye,"  whispered  Lucy. 

A  look  full  of  contempt  reached  the  burgo- 
mistress from  the  dark  eyes  of  the  sick  man. 

"My  child!"  the  old  lady  grasped  both  her 
hands. 


132  MAGDALEN 

"Some  gentlemen  have  just  come,  Miss 
Lucy,  and  they  are  very  anxious  to  make 
your  acquaintance,"  said  the  judge's  wife. 

"Our  administrator,  and  our  judge,  and 
my  husband,"  the  burgomistress  hastened  to 
add. 

Lucy  walked  back  silently,  and  with  bowed 
head. 

"That  fellow  there,"  the  burgomistress 
pointed  to  him,  "is  a  dangerous  fool,  a  Jac- 
obin, a  runaway  student,  a  good-for-noth- 
ing. Has  he  not  done  you  any  harm?" 

Lucy  only  turned  her  head. 

"What  an  unlucky  woman  his  old  mother 
is!"  the  burgomistress  said,  pityingly.  "She 
wanted  to  have  a  doctor!  His  father  was 
but  a  blacksmith's  apprentice.  Well,  blood 
will  out.  What  is  mob,  remains  mob.  His 
consumption,  I  always  say,  is  her  good  for- 
tune." 

Excited,  laughing,  singing,  the  picnickers 


MAGDALEN  133 

returned  home,  as  the  last  beam  of  the  sun's 
reflection  was  paling  in  the  sky. 

In  the  meantime,  a  disgraceful  old  man 
was  sitting  in  an  inn  amidst  a  circle  of  daily 
guests.  His  legs  were  crossed,  his  feet  were 
encased  in  dilapidated,  dusty  shoes.  He 
spoke  in  a  loud  voice,  beating  his  fist  upon 
the  surface  of  the  oak  table.  His  attentive 
audience  from  time  to  time  expressed  its  sat- 
isfaction, its  approval.  Here  were  owners 
of  small  cottages,  shopkeepers,  and  one  al- 
derman; they  treated  the  old  man  to  beer, 
drank  with  him,  and  clinked  glasses.  The 
old  man  harangued  about  his  rights,  a 
father's  rights  to  his  daughter.  He  said  he 
would  not  allow  her  to  be  carried  off  and 
taken  away  by  any  count ;  he  had  all  the  stat- 
utes at  his  fingertips,  and  the  police  were 
with  him ;  he  was  a  cultivated  gentleman ;  he 
had  been  a  teacher  somewhere  in  a  distant 
village ;  fate  had  struck  him  a  grievous  blow ; 


134  MAGDALEN 

his  daughter  had  been  the  support  of  his  old 
age,  his  good  Antigone ;  she  had  lived  lately, 
it  is  true,  in  a  bagnio,  but  whose  affair  was 
that?  What  did  honor  mean  now  anyway? 
Only  a  word!  A  foolish  word!  Though  a 
prostitute,  his  daughter  could  for  her  inner 
worth  be  compared  with  any  decent  woman ! 
He  who  had  secretly  carried  her  off,  who 
had  caught  her  in  his  net,  should  return  her ! 
He  must,  he  must ! 

Nor  would  he  escape  his  punishment! 
We  are  not  in  the  East,  where  one  may  kid- 
nap daughters !  He  talked,  and  drank,  and 
became  excited,  and  talked  again.  Every 
word  of  his  fell  like  divine  manna  upon  the 
souls  of  his  hearers,  and  they  continued 
treating  him  to  beer,  wine,  and  brandy,  until 
at  last  his  grey  head  fell  upon  the  table. 
He  began  to  snore  loudly.  .  .  . 


VII 

AT  the  corner  of  the  common,  there  stood 
a  low,  clean,  little  brown  house  with 
latticed  windows.  The  passers-by  (pro- 
vided they  rallied  about  the  banner  of  the 
ruling  party)  politely  and,  apparently  with- 
out seeing  anybody,  bowed  towards  the  cor- 
ner window.  The  Free  Citizen  aimed  its 
wit  at  it  every  two  weeks,  and  its  partisans 
grinned  maliciously  and  provokingly  at  it, 
though  it  was  quiet  within  and  not  a  human 
face  appeared  there  the  whole  day  long,  and 
two  curved  wings  of  lace  curtains  hung  un- 
disturbed to  the  very  floor. 

Hidden  behind  them,  however,  the  lady  of 
the  house  sat  all  day  over  a  stocking.  She 
seemed  to  have  grown  into  her  armchair, 
like  a  malicious  old  sphinx ;  she  neither  rose, 
nor  bent,  but  her  fat  fingers  moved  the  fleet 

135 


136  MAGDALEN 

knitting  needles.  Over  the  broad  nose  of 
her  ruddy  face,  thick  eyeglasses  were  sad- 
dled, and  under  the  glasses  two  grey  eyes 
flitted  about  like  two  drops  of  mercury.  She 
watched  the  common  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left,  up  and  down,  and  nothing  escaped  her : 
no  man,  no  beast,  no  sheet  of  paper  carried 
by  the  wind,  no  window  facing  the  common, 
no  dormer  window  on  the  roofs.  .  .  . 

That  aged  widow,  whose  husband,  a  pre- 
siding alderman,  had  been  killed  in  the  au- 
tumn by  an  awkward  hunter  who  emptied  a 
full  charge  into  his  abdomen,  had  a  daughter 
whom  thirty  summers  were  making  as  bitter 
as  meadow-saffron.  A  modest  income  from 
the  house  and  the  fields  barely  permitted 
them  to  lead  an  existence  proper  for  pa- 
trician women,  and  thus  life  enraged  them 
against  their  own  fate,  and  filled  them  with 
hatred  for  the  whole  human  race.  Like  that 
Merlin  of  old,  of  whom  the  Romanticists 
sing,  the  widow  passed  her  days  at  the  win- 
dow, where  with  her  quick  glance  she 


MAGDALEN  137 

watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  life.  In  her 
head  were  deposited  all  the  past  and  future 
events,  all  the  most  secret  deeds  of  her  weak 
town  neighbors, —  and  all  that  was  as  balsam 
to  her  angry  soul. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  picnic.  Early  in 
the  morning,  about  eight  o'clock,  when  the 
children  of  the  town  were  disporting  them- 
selves with  their  book  bags  on  the  common, 
the  burgomistress  walked  out  of  her  house, 
at  an  unusually  fast  gait.  In  a  long  coffee- 
colored  cloak,  which,  as  she  walked,  showed 
her  white  petticoat,  without  powder  on  her 
face,  her  hair  evidently  not  combed  and  not 
curled,  with  trembling  nostrils,  she  went 
straight  to  the  little  house  in  the  corner  of 
the  common. 

She  entered  the  room.  On  the  elevation 
near  the  window  sat  the  dignified  lady  of 
the  house,  knitting  her  stocking.  Frau  von 
Fischmeister  was  sitting  near  her  in  a 
straight  military  pose.  Further  away,  in  a 
semicircle,  sat  the  wife  of  the  commissary,  a 


138  MAGDALEN 

woman  covered  with  freckles  and  cross-eyed, 
the  wife  of  the  postmaster,  a  thin  woman 
with  a  waxen  face,  and  Frau  von  Janik,  a 
poor  widow,  the  owner  of  four  houses, —  all 
of  the  women  in  cloaks,  beneath  which  their 
white  petticoats  showed,  and  all  with  their 
hair  done  up  in  a  hurry.  Towards  one  side, 
resting  her  arm  upon  the  piano,  stood  the 
thin,  faded  daughter  of  the  lady  of  the 
house. 

The  burgomistress  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  without  saying  a  word.  Her 
eyes  met  in  a  twinkle  the  eyes  of  all  the 
ladies,  and  she  knowingly  shook  her  head 
three  times,  as  if  to  say:  "There  we  have 
it!  A  nice  affair!"  and  she  silently  placed 
her  chair  in  the  semicircle. 

"A  scandal!"  suddenly  exclaimed  Frau 
von  Fischmeister,  and  all  shook  their  heads. 
The  full  bosom  of  the  burgomistress  heaved 
high:  "I  said  so!  I  am  always  right, — 
I  have  a  good  nose!  Now  we  are  all  dis- 
graced! The  whole  town  is  disgraced! 


MAGDALEN  139 

Only  the  doctor  will  be  rubbing  his  hands  in 
glee !  His  yellow  paper  will  have  something 
to  chew  on  for  half  a  year !  Scandal!  Scan- 
dal!" 

"One  of  Jifi's  escapades!"  said  Frau  von 
Janik.  "Well,  Prague!  That  is  life  at 
Prague !" 

The  lady  of  the  house  motioned  to  her 
daughter:  "Clotild,  you  had  better  go  to 
the  kitchen.  This  is  not  for  your  ears." 

"But,  Mamma!" 

"Clotild!" 

And  Clotild  went  out,  slamming  the  door. 

"The  whole  family  is  like  that,"  dryly  and 
solemnly  began  the  lady  of  the  house.  "His 
father  ..."  and  from  the  treasury  of  her 
recollections  she  drew  immoral,  shameless 
stories  about  Jifi's  father.  The  ladies  inter- 
rupted now  and  then  with:  "ScJ&eckUchl" 
"Scandal!"  The  burgomistress :  "I  de- 
clare! That's  what  I  always  say!"  The 
lady  of  the  house  happened  to  recall  another 
incident  about  his  grandfather.  Again  those 


140  MAGDALEN 

exclamations,  again  wonderment.  She  fin- 
ished. A  small  pause. 

"The  poor  councilloress !"  now  sighed  the 
burgomistress.  "I  wonder  with  what  sly 
pretext  he  deceived  her?" 

"The  councilloress  is  a  little  off,"  the  com- 
missary's wife  moved  the  fingers  of  her  right 
hand  about  her  forehead,  "that's  what  I 
mean." 

"And  that  father  of  hers, —  Kavka  has  re- 
ported to  me  early  this  morning  about  him," 
explained  the  burgomistress  (Kavka,  the 
town  watchman,  was  in  the  habit  of  calling 
early  in  the  morning  at  the  burgomaster's 
kitchen,  and  the  burgomistress  would  listen 
at  breakfast  to  his  report,  when  any  one  had 
gone  home  in  the  night,  in  what  condition, 
from  what  inn,  and  so  forth) ,  "went  at  seven 
o'clock  to  their  house,  and  returned  again 
in  a  few  minutes.  Kavka,  I  tell  you,  is  a 
shrewd  fellow.  He  started  a  conversation 
with  him,  and  that  old  man  began  to  praise 
his  daughter,  the  old  lady,  Jif  i,  and  our  town, 


MAGDALEN  141 

—  thanks !  Kavka  soon  found  out  that  Jif i 
had  lined  his  pockets  with  money, —  you  see, 
pleasure  is  expensive.  The  old  fellow  has 
gone  back  to  Prague.  He  told  Kavka  that 
he  would  be  back,  that  there  were  good  peo- 
ple here,  that  nothing  would  please  him  bet- 
ter than  to  settle  here, —  a  pleasant  out- 
look!" 

Again  a  pause.  The  commissary's  wife, 
seeing  now  a  favorable  moment  for  an  ef- 
fective speech,  coughed,  her  eyes  looking 
more  cross-eyed  than  ever,  and  with  a  sub- 
dued voice  she  began  to  speak  of  that  cate- 
gory of  girls  to  which  Lucy  belonged,  and 
she  told  of  those  houses  where,  they  say,  they 
are  to  be  found,  in  tens  and  twenties,  of  those 
small  rooms,  of  how  they  are  furnished,  of 
those  orgies  which  are  celebrated  there  in  the 
hours  of  the  night.  The  burgomistress 
looked  all  the  time  with  a  side  glance  at  her: 
the  commissary's  wife  seemed  to  her,  as  she 
spoke,  like  a  starved  person  that  pictures 
to  himself  savory  dishes ;  the  other  ladies  lis- 


142  MAGDALEN 

tened  attentively,  as  one  listens  to  old,  long 
familiar  speeches,  which,  however,  one  likes 
to  hear  again, —  the  commissary's  wife  con- 
tinued speaking,  choosing  full,  pregnant 
words,  now  elaborating  the  story  with  jests, 
and  now  winking. 

The  subject  was  more  universally  dis- 
cussed, and  Frau  von  Janik  could  add  many 
a  beautiful  detail. 

Then  Frau  von  Fischmeister  arose :  "Did 
you  notice  yesterday  how  persistently  Jifi 
clung  to  Anda,  the  tax  collector's  daughter? 
Anda  is  a  clever  girl,  but  it  would  be  well  to 
give  the  tax  collector's  wife  a  hint.  Such  a 
bird  as  he  ought  to  be  kept  away  from  her." 

"If  one  only  knew  what  the  councilloress 
thinks  of  it,"  said  the  postmaster's  wife,  re- 
turning to  the  old  theme. 

The  lady  of  the  house  allowed  the  stock- 
ing to  fall  into  her  lap :  "We  know  her  fool- 
ish affection  for  her  nephew.  In  the  end  she 
will  give  in,  and  will  be  glad  that  Mr.  Jiri 
has  his  fair  magnet  at  home." 


MAGDALEN  143 

"Scandalous!  Scandalous!"  confirmed 
Frau  von  Janik. 

"Did  you  notice  yesterday  how  this  our 
pure  dove  kept  on  refusing  to  play?"  started 
again  the  burgomistress,  "and  how  she  ran 
away  ?  She  had  bites  of  conscience  in  decent 
society.  She  found  the  Jacobin  somewhere 
in  the  woods.  Birds  of  a  feather  .  .  ." 

Just  then  the  clock  began  to  whirr,  like  a 
sick  man  who  is  about  to  cough,  and  then  it 
struck  eleven. 

"Oh,  it  is  already  eleven!"  The  burgo- 
mistress jumped  up.  "Dinner  time!"  The 
ladies  all  jumped  up.  The  burgomistress 
opened  the  door.  Clotild,  with  burning 
face  and  sparkling  eyes  wide  open,  almost 
fell  into  the  room.  The  burgomistress 
smiled. 

"Adieu!"  the  ladies  bid  good-bye  and  went 
out. 

"Clotild,  that  is  not  proper.  You  must 
not  listen  behind  the  door,"  began  the  lady  of 
the  house. 


144  MAGDALEN 

Lucy  stepped  out  of  the  gate  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand.  The  old  lady  was  taking  a  nap  after 
dinner.  The  room  was  hot  and  oppressive, 
and  the  troublesome  flies  were  everywhere, 
—  they  seemed  to  be  most  annoying  at  just 
that  time  of  the  day. 

At  dinner  Jifi  ironically  gave  her  her 
father's  regards.  Oh,  that  father!  She 
shook  in  disgust,  and  did  not  ask  any  farther, 
when  or  how  he  had  come,  or  whether  he  had 
left  again.  She  had  that  moment  a  feeling 
as  if  a  bony  hand  had  stretched  out  from 
somewhere  in  her  past,  as  if  it  drew  her  back 
and  down  by  the  hem  of  her  garment.  She 
ate  little,  and  did  not  speak. 

She  was  walking  slowly,  in  a  bright  striped 
gown  and  with  her  parasol  open,  towards  the 
castle  park.  She  walked  in  the  sun,  for  in 
the  street  there  was  no  shade.  She  happened 
to  look  at  the  sunlit  wall  from  which  the  heat 
was  reflected  in  a  burning  stream.  A  feel- 
ing of  inexplicable  anxiety  was  upon  her,  and 


MAGDALEN  145 

she  was  not  thinking  of  anything.  She 
watched  the  swarms  of  flies  that  were  warm- 
ing themselves  upon  the  wall ;  frightened  by 
her  steps,  they  rose  in  a  semicircle,  flashed 
their  metal-colored  bodies,  and  fell  like  ar- 
rows further  away. 

Suddenly  she  looked  up.  Frau  von  Fisch- 
meister  and  the  commissary's  wife  were  com- 
ing from  the  opposite  direction.  Lucy 
stepped  more  firmly,  but  the  two  ladies 
crossed  on  the  other  side  .  .  .  they  came 
nearer  .  .  .  they  were  in  one  line  .  .  . 
Lucy  bowed  politely  .  .  .  they  did  riot  an- 
swer the  greeting  .  .  .  they  were  looking 
sidewise,  deep  in  a  lively  conversation  .  .  . 
they  passed.  .  .  . 

Again,  as  before,  Lucy  walked  more  lei- 
surely; she  felt  a  stinging  sensation,  as  if 
some  one  were  looking  at  her  from  behind. 
She  turned  around:  both  the  ladies  were 
standing  and  looking  at  her.  Lucy  bowed 
once  more,  rather  timidly  and  undecidedly, 
—  they  did  not  answer,  but  sharply  turned 


146  MAGDALEN 

around,  and  walked  on.  Lucy  at  once 
blushed ;  hosts  of  instinctive  fears  surrounded 
her.  .  .  .  She  allayed  them  with  this  and 
that,  but  the  sting  had  entered  deep  into  her 
heart. 

She  walked  into  the  park.  A  mixture  of 
different  odors  reached  her.  On  the  left 
were  many-colored  pinks :  somewhere  nearby 
she  scented  bird  cherries,  and  the  first  roses. 
The  smell  of  walnut  leaves  was  stronger  than 
all,  as  she  entered  into  a  gigantic  avenue. 
A  footpath  to  the  left  led  to  the  old  rococo 
part.  Near  the  road  an  ousel  softly  hopped 
from  time  to  time  in  the  rank  grass,  and 
looked  queerly  at  her  with  its  blinking  eyes. 
...  A  finch  called  loudly  over  her  very 
head.  The  bees  buzzed  about  her  ears, — 
otherwise  everything  was  quiet,  solemnly 
quiet. 

She  walked  down  some  stone  steps  where 
the  posts  of  the  former  banister  rails  were 
still  standing,  into  the  old  park.  Here  ash- 


MAGDALEN  147 

trees,  planes,  and  old  birches  cast  impene- 
trable shadows  upon  the  ground.  The  air 
was  fresher  and  moister.  In  an  old  foun- 
tain, where  a  moss-covered,  armless  nymph 
had  long  ago  ceased  to  pour  forth  water,  lay 
a  heap  of  rotting  leaves.  Here  and  there  a 
broken  bench  clung  in  the  shade  of  the 
foliage.  The  tree-tops  trembled  with  a  mel- 
ancholy noise. 

Lucy  walked  softly,  warily,  as  if  afraid 
to  disturb  the  dreams  of  that  dead  past. 

"Walk  more  softly!"  she  suddenly  heard 
some  one  say. 

She  stopped,  frightened.  The  branch  of 
a  hornbeam  was  moved  aside,  and  there,  on 
a  bench,  sat  the  consumptive  man,  that 
strange  acquaintance  of  hers  of  the  previous 
day.  He  looked  peacefully  at  her,  his  right 
eye  was  turned  away, —  the  green  shade  lay 
upon  his  sunken  cheeks.  Lucy  stood  still, 
something  kept  her  back, —  and  she  looked 
at  his  bony  hand.  Pity  took  possession  of 


148  MAGDALEN 

her,  and  she  wished  to  say  something  pleas- 
ant to  him,  so  she  asked  him  gently:  "Are 
you  feeling  better  to-day?" 

He  smiled:     "No,  but  I  shall  some  time." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  he  asked  softly. 

She  gave  him  her  book. 

"Poetry!"  and  he  burst  out  with  a  con- 
temptuous laugh.  He  looked  interroga- 
tively at  her. 

"From  the  .bottom  of  my  soul  I  despise 
our  modern  rhyming,"  he  said  excitedly. 
"The  poet  is  now-a-days  a  disreputable  fel- 
low! If  he  has  to  write  a  line,  he  becomes 
swollen  with  conceit,  begins  to  model  words, 
sentences,  and  rhymes, —  the  devil  knows 
what  he  is  about, —  if  only  he  said  something 
sensible!  And  what  does  he  write  about? 
About  love  and  troth,  about  the  moon  and 
stars;  he  glorifies  the  good,  curses  rascals, 
kisses  the  boots  of  old  kings,  and  knights, 
and  their  fair  maidens,  prophesies  good  times 
to  his  country  and  to  humanity  in  general 


MAGDALEN  149 

—  Oh,  those  ossified  conceptions  that  have 
long  lost  their  significance! 

"And  again,  for  whom  does  he  write? 
For  our  bourgeois!  And  they  are  every 
inch  of  them  practical  people!  If  they  are 
going  to  give  six  kreuzers  for  that  book,  they 
want  to  have  something  for  it!  The  praise 
of  ancient,  good  days,  prophecies  that  better 
times  are  coming, —  such  things  the  bour- 
geois like  to  read.  Then  hymns  of  human- 
ity, justice,  sympathy,  light,  virtue,  and 
goodness, —  only  sing  these  ideals  to  them, — 
it  is  like  scratching  their  backs, —  that 
pleases  them,  and  they  like  it  so  much,  that 
they  are  willing  to  stretch  out  their  hands 
for  a  small  volume  of  these  verses  from  time 
to  time!  Do  you  suppose  all  that  finds  an 
echo  in  their  souls,  their  hearts,  and  their 
blood?  No,  no,  no!  They  have  only  been 
inoculated  at  school  with  the  idea  that  this 
is  beautiful,  that  this  is  good,  that  it  will  not 
hurt  them,  their  sons,  or  their  daughters,  as 
long  as  it  is  all  quiet!  Only  no  militant 


150  MAGDALEN 

spirit!  That  unnerves  them!  They  are 
afraid  of  catastrophes  and  revolutions.  And 
thus  our  whole  poetry  flows  in  a  conserva- 
tive stream!"  He  threw  the  book  down  on 
the  bench. 

"What  good  is  it  to  us?"  he  said  more 
quietly,  measuring  Lucy  with  his  eyes.  Her 
expression  evidently  told  him  that  there  was 
much  she  did  not  understand. 

But  her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  delight. 
That  voice  sounded  pleasant  to  her,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  to  be  true  and  convincing,  and 
so  she  was  absolutely  sure  that  all  this  was 
the  truth.  .  .  . 

"Hide  yourself,"  he  suddenly  whispered 
to  her,  pointing  to  the  bench  on  which  he 
was  sitting.  Lucy  looked  around  her  and 
at  once  sat  down.  The  steps  of  two  persons 
were  heard  upon  the  sand, —  the  heads  were 
already  visible:  one  belonged  to  the  slender 
blonde,  the  daughter  of  the  tax  collector,  the 
other  to  Jiff.  He  was  looking  into  her  face, 
and  she  was  glancing  sideways, —  a  girl's 


MAGDALEN  151 

scheming  pose:  "I  will  never  fall  in  love; 
my  ideal  would  be  to  live  somewhere  within 
the  walls  of  a  cloister,"  she  said,  sentimen- 
tally. 

They  passed  by, —  their  steps  and  voices 
died  away. 

"Jiff,  Jiff,  silly  carp,"  the  sick  man 
laughed  loud. 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"My  schoolmate, —  formerly  my  friend. 
It  is  comical,"  he  suddenly  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, "how  he,  a  connoisseur  of  female  hearts 
(so  he  deemed  himself  to  be),  he,  who  was 
tired  of  all  those  joys  and  pleasures,  who  re- 
garded himself  as  a  blase,  a  sly  fellow,  a  dip- 
lomat of  love,  is  deceived  by  the  first  toad 
that  has  crossed  his  way!  It  is  too  funny! 
Well,  there  will  soon  be  a  wedding.  The 
young  lady  has  a  good  instinct :  a  little  coun- 
try jollity,  some  remarkable  restraint,  and 
yet  is  a  little  provoking, —  add  to  this  a  ve- 
neer of  romantic  sentimentality, —  and  be- 
hold that  is  the  creature  which  our  blase 


152  MAGDALEN 

carp,  'god  of  fortune'  my  mother  calls  him, 
has  caught.  In  two  years  they  will  begin  to 
get  stout,  to  be  tired  of  each  other,  to  quar- 
rel, and  again  to  make  up, —  ugh,  it's  an 
insipid  life!  Of  course,  our  whole  life  is 
something  incidental  and  temporary,  and  it 
does  not  make  much  difference,  how  we  go 
through  it.  .  .  ." 

Lucy  displayed  true  feminine  curiosity, — 
curiosity,  and  nothing  else, —  for  she  was  in- 
terested only  in  this  new  park.  As  they 
passed  by,  a  peculiar  peace  fell  upon  her  soul. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  a  tree  must  feel  that 
way,  when  a  lifeless  branch  is  cut  from  it. 
Her  relation  to  Jiff  now  became  clear  to  her, 
—  it  was  a  pure,  sisterly  relation.  With  her 
whole  heart,  she  wished  the  two  happiness, 
and  Jifi  suddenly  appeared  to  her  as  some- 
thing better,  and  she  felt  that  she  would 
from  now  on  be  more  lenient  with  him,  that 
she  would  make  peace  with  him,  and  would 
press  his  hand  at  home.  Then  she  felt  that 


MAGDALEN  153 

something  brought  her  nearer  to  that  stran- 
ger by  her  side. 

"My  appointed  time,  too,  will  soon  come," 
he  added,  firmly,  but  more  to  himself. 

"But  you  have  not  coughed  yet,"  she  con- 
soled him. 

"What  is  not,  that  may  .  .  ."  his  hand 
suddenly  grasped  hers.  She  drew  back  in 
surprise,  and  looked  at  him,  but  immediately 
caught  him  up  with  her  other  hand.  A  sud- 
den weakness  overcame  him,  a  pale  mist  lay 
over  his  eyes,  his  face  looked  ghastly  white 
in  the  green  shade,  and  he  breathed  heavily 
and  with  effort.  She  looked  at  him  in 
fright:  all  of  a  sudden  an  infinite  pity  took 
possession  of  her, —  pity?  .  .  .  She  took  his 
head  in  her  hands,  kissed  his  brow,  held  it, 
and  tenderly  passed  her  fingers  through  his 
hair.  .  .  .  At  that  moment  there  was  a  din 
in  her  breast,  as  if  a  broad  torrent  were 
pouring  through  it;  an  intoxicating  weak- 
ness fell  upon  her  head,  her  eyes,  and  her 


154  MAGDALEN 

ears.  .  .  .  Everything  around  them  disap- 
peared,—  only  they  remained;  that  empti- 
ness grew  broader  and  broader,  it  grew  above 
them  and  below  them,  and  they  were  in  the 
midst.  .  .  . 

He  slowly  opened  his  eyelids. 

He  did  not  speak  a  word;  he  only  looked 
somewhere  into  the  distance,  between  the 
branches.  Then  he  gently  dropped  her 
hands,  and  sat  a  little  longer : 

"Not  yet  to-day,  but,  perhaps,  in  ten  or 
fourteen  days,"  he  coughed,  "it  will  all  be 


over." 


Tears  sparkled  in  Lucy's  eyes. 

He  looked  a  long  time  at  them,  as  if  they 
were  a  relief  to  him.  .  .  .  "Well,  it  is  a  fine 
sundown,"  he  whispered  softly. 

"Is  it  true,"  he  suddenly  asked  in  a  strong 
voice,  "that  you  are  ...  his  mistress?" 

"I  am  not,  I  am  not !" 

"Of  course,"  he  again  spoke  quietly,  in 
apathetic  peace,  "what  difference  does  it 
make?  To-day  the  whole  town  knows  your 


MAGDALEN  155 

history;  your  life  is  as  open  as  a  book,  and 
all  will  cast  mud  upon  it.  ..." 

Lucy  wrung  her  hands :  "I  swear  to  you : 
I  am  not,  I  am  not !  Mire  .  .  .  yes,  I  have 
walked  through  the  mire,  but  I  want  to  live 
a  new  life,  another,  a  pure  life.  .  .  ."  Tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes. 

"The  bourgeois  will  not  permit  that;  they 
will  crush  you,"  he  said  sadly.  "The  new 
life!"  he  repeated.  "What  is  that  for?  That 
people  should  look  differently  at  you?  That 
they  should  consider  you  their  equal?"  He 
shook  his  head:  "In  vain, —  never!  The 
bourgeois  will  not  permit  anything,  they  will 
not  forget.  Oh,  I  should  like  to  live  to  the 
moment  when  this  rotten  world  of  theirs, 
with  all  its  lying  wisdom,  deception,  un- 
truth, stupidity,  and  malice,  will  go  to  ruin!" 

He  shook  with  internal  anger,  and  looked 
into  space,  while  the  green  reflection  of  the 
leaves  swayed  like  needles  in  his  pupils. 
Then,  as  if  seeing  the  absurdity  of  his  anger, 
he  spoke  more  softly: 


156  MAGDALEN 

"I  should  like  to  hasten  the  stream  of  time 
by  some  twenty  years!  In  twenty  years  it 
will  be  different.  In  twenty  years  from 
now  you  would  be  happy ;  in  twenty  years  I 
myself  would  not  be  so  willing  to  die.  To- 
day we  are  both  j  udged,  both  lost.  In  short ; 
this  life  ...  it  does  not  make  any  differ- 
ence how  we  live  it  ...  it  is  something  tem- 
porary .  .  .  maybe  later  it  will  be  some- 
thing, and  maybe  not  .  .  .  who  knows?" 

Lucy  was  not  listening.  Her  meeting 
with  the  ladies  at  once  became  clear  to  her. 
The  feeling  of  a  coming  storm  overcame  her. 
The  whole  park  seemed  to  her  to  be  hostile. 
She  thought  of  the  room  at  the  estate  and 
of  the  old  lady,  of  her  good,  pale  eyes,  and 
she  longed  for  them,  as  a  child  longs  for 
its  mother.  She  arose.  With  face  turned 
away,  she  quietly  gave  him  her  hand.  He 
pressed  it,  without  saying  a  word.  She  went 
away,  faster,  faster,  until  she  found  herself 
almost  at  a  run,  where  the  walnut  leaves 
smelled  more  strongly.  Then  she  walked 


MAGDALEN  157 

more  slowly,  with  downcast  head,  in  dull 
resignation,  like  an  animal  scenting  the  blood 
of  the  slaughterhouse.  .  .  . 


VIII 

FREE  CITIZEN  gave  in  its 
J-  newest  number  a  fine  surprise  to  its 
readers.  They  turned  the  two  sheets  over 
and  over  again,  but  there  was  not  a  word  of 
it  in  it!  It  kept  stubborn  silence  on  every- 
thing,—  on  the  picnic,  the  young  lady,  the 
disgrace  of  the  ruling  party, —  bah,  the  bur- 
gomistress  got  off  with  her  usual  share  of 
abuse,  but  otherwise  not  a  word!  That 
caused  the  heads  of  the  town,  of  the  Opposi- 
tion itself,  to  shake  knowingly :  "Evidently 
the  doctor  is  losing  his  teeth.  .  .  ." 

The  sly  doctor  had  put  the  hand  of  a  diplo- 
mat upon  that  muddled  situation. 

The  town  was  all  in  a  flutter.  Cupidi 
novarum  rerum  they  now  were  in  the  ant 
hill.  They  wanted  to  know  more  and  still 

158 


MAGDALEN  159 

more.  Matters  were  discussed  on  the  com- 
mon, in  the  inns,  in  the  offices,  and  at  home. 
Men  of  the  world  retailed  all  their  expe- 
riences to  a  wondering  crowd,  and  married 
women  listened  to  them  with  blushes.  The 
patrician  daughters,  while  out  for  a  walk  in 
the  evening,  went  as  far  as  the  house,  and 
there  stealthily  looked  into  the  row  of  win- 
dows, hoping  to  find  "her"  sitting  there. 

After  taking  council  in  a  full  meeting,  the 
burgomistress  and  Frau  von  Janik  went  as 
delegated  to  Jiff's  aunt.  They  went  full  of 
praiseworthy  purposes:  to  open  the  eyes  of 
that  good  old  lady  who  had  been  tricked  in  a 
shameless  manner ;  to  point  out  to  her  Jif  i's 
contemptible  action;  to  place  that  reptile, 
"her,"  with  her  fine  past,  in  the  right  light; 
to  say  everything  politely,  yet  openly, —  in 
short,  to  purify  the  atmosphere  in  the  poor 
old  lady's  own  house. 

The  aunt  received  them  as  usual.  They 
seated  themselves,  and  spoke  for  a  long,  long 
time  of  this  and  that;  at  last  the  burgo- 


160  MAGDALEN 

mistress  hemmed.  She  spoke  softly,  im- 
pressively, with  dignity,  as  behooves  the 
worthy  spouse  of  a  town's  head.  Frau  von 
Janik  now  and  then  uttered  a  word  or  two, 
or  put  in  a  whole  sentence.  The  old  lady 
listened  with  surprise,  then  told  them  that 
she  had  known  all  the  time  what  the  girl  had 
been  before,  that  she  had  taken  her  into  her 
house  in  order  to  return  her  to  the  world  and 
decent  society,  that  now  the  girl  was  as  pure 
as  a  child.  She  praised  her,  and  she  said  that 
she  could  hardly  have  been  more  satisfied 
with  her  if  she  had  been  her  own  daughter. 
The  burgomistress  and  Frau  von  Janik  only 
exchanged  cold  glances:  how  that  Jifi  had 
deceived  her,  how  he  had  put  a  cobweb  be- 
fore her  eyes !  Terrible,  terrible ! 

Now  Frau  von  Janik  began  to  speak. 
She  turned  her  attention  to  Jiff.  It  was 
evident,  she  said,  that  he  was  the  fabricator 
of  that  whole  story  about  her  new  innocence, 
that  he  wanted  only  to  throw  a  mantle  over 
his  passion  before  the  town  and  before  her, 


MAGDALEN  161 

his  aunt;  that  the  whole  town  was  deeply 
agitated  by  that  trickery,  and  that  everybody 
pitied  the  councilloress  for  having  so  much 
shame  cast  upon  her  white  hair. 

The  old  lady  replied  emphatically,  but 
curtly,  that  that  was  not  true.  The  two 
ladies  arose  in  undisguised  indignation  and 
went  away. 

The  town  was  once  more  in  a  turmoil. 
The  old  lady  was  in  the  foreground  of  the 
situation.  People  wrung  their  hands  in  dis- 
gust over  the  blind  love  for  that  worldly 
man,  and  over  her  credulity. 

Just  then  the  doctor,  the  head  of  the  Oppo- 
sition, called  upon  Jifi.  A  great  plan  had 
ripened  in  his  head.  Jifi  had  been  a  neutral 
spectator  of  that  war  of  the  town  mice,  and 
only  occasionally  leaned  towards  the  ruling 
party,  as  was  proper  for  a  rich  man  and  a 
patrician.  In  the  depth  of  his  soul,  the  op- 
position of  the  democracy  was  distasteful  to 
him.  In  Prague  he  had,  in  political  discus- 
sions, often  quoted  with  conviction  Horace's 


162  MAGDALEN 

Odi  profanum,  and  as  long  as  his  breast  was 
beset  by  longings,  he  dreamed  of  some  day 
attaching  a  "von"  to  his  name,  or  of  some 
well-sounding  baronetcy. 

The  doctor  did  not  find  him  at  home.  He 
was  told  that  he  was  in  the  field. 

He  went  down  to  see  him  there.  The  two 
walked  among  acres  of  beets,  where  a  crowd 
of  perspiring  peasants  were  swarming  in  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  amidst  the  singing  of  larks, 
and  in  the  blue  smoke  of  cigarettes ;  and  they 
talked  for  a  long  time. 

At  once  the  news  flew  through  the  town 
that  Jifi  had  gone  over  to  the  Opposition, 
that  he  had  become  co-proprietor  of  The 
Free  Citizen,  that  he  would  be  a  candidate 
for  representative  at  the  Diet,  that  he  would 
speak  on  Sunday,  when  the  banner  of  the 
white  veterans  would  be  consecrated  upon 
the  island ;  that  The  Free  Citizen  would  from 
now  on  appear  with  an  illustrated  satirical 
addition, —  and  many  more  things  flew 
through  the  town  like  lightning. 


MAGDALEN  163 

The  burgomaster  was  very  angry  at  his 
dinner :  "It  is  your  talking  that  has  done  it 
all!"  he  accused  his  spouse.  "You  have  at- 
tacked that  girl  like  hornets!  Besides,  the 
whole  lot  of  you  are  no  better!  There  will 
be  now  an  end  of  Mr.  Burgomaster!" 

Then  the  burgomistress  arose,  returned 
ten  words  for  every  word  of  his,  and  splen- 
didly defended  her  honor  and  that  of  her  fol- 
lowers; then  a  few  tears  trickled  down  her 
cheeks,  she  wept  out  loud,  and  the  burgo- 
master turned  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and 
began  peacefully  his  defence :  ' 'A  ber,  Katz- 
chen,  I  did  not  say  all  that.  .  .  ." 

It  was  now  twenty  years  since  Corporal 
Vaclav  Benda  had  come  home  from  the  war. 
On  his  breast  gleamed  a  cross  (he  had  earned 
it  at  Solferino)  and  a  silver  medal  (at 
Sadowa).  He  returned  to  his  native  home 
with  the  idea  of  forming  a  society  of  brave 
veterans,  according  to  the  custom  of  other 
towns.  Some  fifty  good  men  joined  it.  It 


164  MAGDALEN 

bore  the  name  of  Radecky.1  On  holidays, 
such  as  Corpus  Christi,  the  eighteenth  of 
August,  Easter  Sunday,  and  at  funerals,  the 
society  came  out  in  all  its  glory.  At  the  con- 
secration of  the  banner,  the  princess  herself 
had  been  godmother. 

Each  member  was  covered  with  gold, —  the 
lace,  the  stripes  of  the  trousers,  and  the 
lapels, —  everything  was  of  gold,  while  upon 
their  hats  waved  majestically  black  panaches. 
Their  president  was  Vaclav  Benda.  It  was 
a  pleasure  to  look  at  those  stately  men  and 
to  see  the  military  spirit  revive  in  them  dur- 
ing such  parades!  Just  as  though  an  old 
warhorse,  drawing  a  plough,  suddenly  heard 
the  march  of  Prince  Eugene!  He  struts 
along  proudly,  keeping  measure,  neighs,  and 
raises  his  head, —  just  so  our  veterans  filed 
by  with  sure  steps  before  the  local  dignita- 
ries! 

But  two  years  before  another  society  of 
veterans  had  been  formed,  at  the  instigation 

i  Field-marshal  Count  Radecty   (Radetzky). 


MAGDALEN  165 

of  the  doctor.  There  were  quite  a  number 
of  men  who  were  anxious  for  decorations,  but 
whom  proud  Benda  had  turned  away,  on  the 
ground  that  they  had  never  worn  the  em- 
peror's uniform.  The  doctor  called  to- 
gether these  rejected  men,  and  wrote  them 
out  some  by-laws.  A  new  society  came  into 
life.  Everybody,  without  exception,  could 
be  its  member.  The  society  had  about  one 
hundred  men.  Their  uniforms  were  even 
more  expensive  than  those  of  the  others. 
There  was  still  more  gold  upon  them, 
but  from  their  hats  waved  white  pan- 
aches. The  society  bore  the  name  of 
even  a  greater  person  than  the  grey  marshal 
himself, —  in  short,  it  was  a  dangerous  rival. 
It  grew  and  grew.  Many  black  ones  left 
Benda  soon,  and  went  over  to  the  white 
panaches.  Now  these  white  ones  were  also 
to  get  a  banner,  and  the  doctor's  wife  was  to 
be  godmother.  (There  was  no  princess 
present,  therefore  the  doctor  made  a  mighty 
democratic  speech  at  one 'of  the  meetings: 


166  MAGDALEN 

"We  no  longer  have  any  aristocracy,  the 
people  is  everything,"  etc.) 

Sunday  came.  At  a  high  mass  about  noon 
the  banner  was  consecrated,  and  then  it  was 
carried  to  the  island.  Here,  in  the  shade  of 
oaks  and  amidst  restaurant  tables,  rose  a 
platform  adorned  with  bunting,  flags,  and 
pine  boughs.  The  island  was  filling  up.  The 
dignitaries  had  their  table  near  the  platform. 
The  doctor  was  there  with  his  wife,  the  aunt 
with  Lucy,  the  tax  collector's  wife  with  her 
blonde  daughter  (being  a  wise  mother,  she 
had  gone  over  to  this  camp,  for  she  had  well 
noticed  the  fire  for  her  daughter  in  Jifi's 
breast) .  She  had  heard,  it  is  true,  of  Jifi's 
relations  with  Lucy,  but  her  daughter's  ex- 
istence was  more  to  her  than  everything  else. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  him  at  the 
first  favorable  moment  that  there  was  but 
one  conditio  sine  qua  non:  To  send  that  girl 
away  from  his  house.  The  tax  collector  was 
there,  a  speechless  bureaucrat,  two  adjuncts, 
the  merchant  Jiskra  with  his  wife,  Captain 


MAGDALEN  167 

Knotek,  Aiaerman  Vrzal,  the  apotnecary, 
the  flour-dealer  Vrba,  Doctor  medicinse 
universe  &ehak,  and  the  wives  and  daugh- 
ters of  the  celebrating  veterans,  who  now 
stood  in  a  circle  around  the  platform.  All 
was  quiet,  and  only  the  branches  of  the  oaks 
rustled  to  the  ripple  of  the  nearby  water. 

Jifi  was  the  speaker.  At  first  he  spoke 
calmly,  cleared  his  throat  in  places,  looked 
into  his  notes,  and  at  times  passed  his  fingers 
through  his  thin  hair.  The  farther  he  pro- 
ceeded, the  more  excited  he  became :  he  em- 
phasized, thundered,  now  and  then  made  ef- 
fective pauses  and  proper  gestures,  and 
shook  his  head. 

He  began  with  the  White  Mountain,1  and 
the  two  centuries'  deep  sleep  of  our  lion, 
then  spoke  of  the  marvellous  awakening,  and 
here  he  quoted  Kollar  2  (about  the  shepherd's 

iThe  battle  at  the  White  Mountain  took  place  in  1620; 
here  the  independence  of  Bohemia  and  many  of  its  liber- 
ties were  forever  lost. 

2  Jan  Kolldr  (1793-1852),  famous  poet  who  was  one 
of  the  chief  promoters  of  the  literary  regeneration  of 
Bohemia. 


168  MAGDALEN 

hut)  ;  then  he  related  the  effects  of  the  con- 
stitution, and  Bach's  *  despotism,  analyzed 
the  February  Patent?  discussed  with  fire 
the  Diplomas?  spoke  long  of  the  passive 
Opposition,  of  entering  the  Austrian  Par- 
liament, of  the  sad,  grovelling  politics,  of 
the  rotten  opportunistic  party,  of  the  venal 
government,  of  that  new,  approaching  era 
that  demanded  new  men,  new  organizations. 
(Here  he  again  quoted  Kollar:  "Let  all 
men  work,"  etc.) 

Then,  by  a  nice  turn,  he  passed  over  to  our 
white  veterans:  he  called  them  a  national 
legion,  to  whom  the  realm  might  appeal  in- 
deed at  any  moment ;  and  that  banner,  which 
was  to  be  a  holy  symbol  to  them,  should  be 
borne  to  the  honor  and  glory  of  their  society 
and  their  country. 

The  standard  bearer  raised  the  banner  to  a 

1  Alexander  Bach,  famous  Austrian  minister  after  1848. 

2  A  charter  granted  to  Bohemia  on  February  26,  1861. 

3  The   most   important   Diploma   is   the   one    granted   by 
Emperor    Frank   Josef  in    1860,   by  which  the   absolutism 
was  abolished  in  favor  of  an  equality  of  all  the  lands  of 
the  realm. 


MAGDALEN  169 

dizzy  height,  and  the  music  fell  in  with: 
"Where  is  our  home?"  The  island  shook  to 
its  foundation  from  the  storm  of  applause 
and  the  cries  of  "Glory!"  Kutzendorfer, 
the  concert  master,  followed  with:  "Hej, 
Slavs,  you  ask,  Moravian  maid," — and 
again  there  was  a  deafening  noise  and  ap- 
plause. Jifi,  his  face  red,  stepped  down. 
The  doctor  embraced  him  and  kissed  him. 
Then  came  congratulations  from  all  sides, 
drinking,  and  cries  of:  "Glory!  Glory!" 
The  blonde  wife  of  the  tax  collector,  congrat- 
ulating him  half  comically,  half  seriously, 
patted  his  open  hand  with  hers.  Jifi  seated 
himself  near  her. 

Then  the  doctor  arose.  "Silence,  silence !" 
was  the  cry.  The  doctor  swung  his  glass 
and  drank  to  Jifi.  Again:  "Glory!" 
The  glasses  clinked,  and  the  music  thundered 
a  flourish.  Jifi  drank  to  the  godmother  of 
the  banner. 

Then  a  terrible  furor  rhetoricus  (a  specific 
Bohemian  ailment)  took  possession  of  the 


170  MAGDALEN 

crowd.  Speeches  followed  upon  speeches, 
and  then  two  or  three  speakers  were  talking 
at  the  same  time.  Kutzendorfer  gave  the 
company  a  full  force  of  marches  in  breathless 
succession.  The  beer  poured  down  the 
throats.  The  white  panaches  shook  slowly 
on  the  veterans'  heads,  though  somewhat  to 
one  side. 

The  red  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  reflected 
on  the  surface  of  the  Elbe,  flooded  the  island. 
The  golden  air  was  filled  with  grey  tobacco 
smoke,  which  rose,  snakelike,  through  the 
branches  of  the  oaks  to  the  sky.  Here  and 
there  a  swarm  of  gnats  flew  by  in  a  whirling 
mass.  Tiny  waiters  placed  candles  in  glass 
globes  upon  the  tables.  There  was  a  noise 
and  din. 

Lucy  sat  like  a  lifeless  statue.  That  mer- 
riment was  strange  to  her ;  she  did  not  under- 
stand it,  and  she  looked  at  it  as  if  from  some 
far  distance.  No  one  spoke  to  her,  except 
the  old  aunt.  Not  a  word.  She  felt  that 
all  were  shielding  themselves  from  contact 


MAGDALEN  171 

with  her.  If  she  looked  anywhere,  she  saw 
somebody's  eyes  turning  aside,  though  they 
had  but  just  been  fixed  upon  her.  She 
heard  within  her  the  well-known  old  song : 

"Only  once  we  live  down  here : 
Beauty,  youth  soon  disappear; 
Age  runs  riot  with  our  face, 
Of  our  youth  leaves  not  a  trace." 

That  song  kept  on  returning  to  her  all  the 
time,  and  she  hummed  it  inwardly.  On  that 
day  it  sounded  so  melancholy,  so  despairing, 
as  if  she  were  to  bury  with  it  her  young, 
empty  life.  For  a  moment  the  face  with  the 
dark  glance  would  flash  in  her  mind,  the 
right  eye  looking  sideways, —  again  she  was 
gazing  at  it.  That  stung  her.  .  .  .  Where 
was  he  now  ?  How  much  more  gladly  would 
she  have  been  sitting  there  in  the  park,  by  his 
side  ...  his  cough  dinned  distinctly  in  her 
ear,  and  she  trembled. 

"Only  once  we  live  down  here." 
If  she  could  only  redeem  his  life  by  her  lost, 


172  MAGDALEN 

worthless  life!  Her  room  of  former  days 
stood  before  her.  There,  in  that  house,  she 
saw  herself  clearly  before  the  mirror, —  she 
was  combing  her  hair.  .  .  . 

"Only  once  we  live  down  here." 

She  almost  felt  that  in  the  bagnio  she  was 
happier.  .  .  .  What  would  be  next?  She 
shuddered.  The  presentiment  of  some 
dark,  terrible  catastrophe  chilled  her. 

It  was  evening.  The  tables  were  lighted. 
The  colored  lamps  that  were  strung  on  poles 
between  them  were  swinging  to  and  fro. 
The  people  were  surging  up  and  down  on  the 
island.  Confectioner  Curcek,  a  clever  local 
pyrotechnist,  sent  up  a  swarm  of  colored 
rockets. 

The  doctor  leaned  for  a  moment  down  to 
Lucy,  pinched  her  cheek,  and,  looking  pro- 
vokingly  into  her  eyes,  asked  her:  "Well, 
what  do  you  say,  deary?"  That  tone  re- 
minded her  again  of  that  house,  of  that  life. 
She  looked  scornfully  at  him,  but  did  not  say 
a  word. 


MAGDALEN  173 

The  doctor  stepped  aside  abashed.  Just 
then  Jifi  came  by,  and  took  him  away;  but 
Lucy  saw  him  patting  him  on  the  shoulder 
and  saying :  "Friend,  you  have  a  fine  lassie ! 
I  must  say,  you  show  good  taste !" 

Jifi  drew  him  aside,  and  explained  some- 
thing to  him ;  the  doctor  smiled,  and  shook  his 
head. 

The  old  lady  was  fatigued  by  all  the  sights, 
and  soon  fell  asleep.  Then  suddenly  the 
doctor's  wife  seated  herself  by  Lucy's  side. 
Her  silk  garment  rustled  at  every  motion; 
her  little  head  was  redolent  with  powder;  in 
her  pale-blue  eye  was  reflected  an  eternal 
longing  for  luxury;  her  every  turn,  glance, 
and  smile  was  graceful  and  charming.  She 
spoke  two  or  three  sentences,  and  lightly 
vaulted  over  to  the  burgomistress  and  to 
those  ladies  who  gathered  every  morning  for 
gossip  in  the  house  at  the  common.  She 
called  them  very  humorously  the  holy  inqui- 
sition of  the  town,  then  sarcastically,  but  in 
a  half -whisper,  told  her  the  salacious  stories 


174  MAGDALEN 

of  their  lives ;  she  at  times  put  such  questions 
to  Lucy  or  cast  such  a  glance  upon  her,  that 
the  blood  rushed  to  Lucy's  face.  Then  she 
began  to  flash  confidences  upon  her,  and  to 
hint  and  indicate  this  and  that, —  and  bid- 
ding with  all  that  for  Lucy's  confidence,  she 
asked  in  veiled  terms,  and  with  the  naivete  of 
a  young  girl,  for  the  secrets  of  free  love. 

Lucy  opened  her  eyes  wide  in  shame,  ter- 
ror, and  surprise. 

The  doctor's  wife  made  her  questions 
clearer. 

Lucy,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  the  white  table- 
cloth, whispered:  "Madam,  spare  me.  I 
cannot  speak  of  these  things.  .  .  ." 

"You  do  not  need  to  act  the  virtuous  per- 
son before  me,"  whispered  the  doctor's  wife 
with  biting  irony,  and  walked  gracefully 
away. 

"My  dear  aunt,"  Lucy  gently  shook  the 
old  lady's  hand;  "Aunty  dear,  let  us  go  away 
from  here,  I  beg  you.  My  head  is  in  a 
whirl." 


MAGDALEN  175 

"Where  is  Jifi?" 

"He  will  probably  stay  here." 

"Come,  child!" 

When  they  had  passed  the  narrow  path 
and  seated  themselves  in  the  coach,  Lucy 
threw  her  head  in  the  aunt's  lap,  and  sobbed 
out  as  loudly  and  pitifully,  as  if  she  wished 
to  unburden  all  the  bitterness  of  the  day,  all 
the  bitterness  of  her  life. 


IX 

v    r 

JIRI  fixed  up  a  room  in  the  corner  of  the 
house  for  a  study. 

The  heavy  portieres  of  the  windows  ad- 
mitted but  little  light.  There  was  an  evident 
attempt  at  emulating  the  imposing  duskiness 
of  the  studies  of  great  men.  The  furniture, 
—  it  had  been  bought  somewhere  in  Vien- 
na,—  heightened  the  sublime  impression:  it 
was  of  massive  ebony,  covered  with  shining 
plush  of  a  moss  color. 

He  hung  excellent  woodcuts  of  Havlicek 
and  Sladkovsky  upon  the  large  wall,  by  the 
side  of  Brozik's  Hus.  The  seven  famous 

v 

Young  Cechs,  who  were  the  first  to  defend 
their  holy  rights  at  the  Austrian  Diet,  he  had 
hung  above  his  table,  in  expensive  gilt 
frames.  Long  bookshelves  ran  along  the 
walls,  and  these  were  filled  with  fat,  learned 

176 


MAGDALEN  177 

pamphlets  on  political  economy,  with  books 
of  the  great  philosophers,  histories,  and  some 
hundreds  of  booklets,  and  all  the  political 
speeches  from  Demosthenes  up  to  Bismarck. 
Then  there  were  anthologies  of  quotations, 
which  industrious  Germans  collect  and 
classify  according  to  subjects,  and  which  are 
of  great  use  for  oratorical  ornamentations. 
The  minutes  of  the  Diet  were  bound  in 
leather.  The  statutes  and  laws  of  Bohemia 
and  Austria  lay  in  a  big  heap,  from  which  he 
sometimes  took  out  a  volume  to  read  a  page 
and,  yawning,  put  it  back. 

His  large  writing-desk  was  covered  with 
papers  and  a  mass  of  documents,  and  there, 
from  day  to  day,  he  carefully  deposited  his 
campaign  speeches,  speeches  full  of  fire,  full 
of  promises  to  the  voters  of  all  the  classes, 
full  of  sulphury  flashes  and  thunder  against 
unyielding  Vienna, —  the  great  and  famous 
July  elections  were  not  far  off! 

The  doctor  called  on  him  often.  He 
smoked,  while  Jifi  read  to  him  his  weighty 


178  MAGDALEN 

philippics.  The  doctor  corrected  him  in 
places,  smiled,  and  predicted  great  success 
for  him  and  a  seat  in  the  Diet.  He  said  that 
the  committee  of  the  party  would  send  him  a 
trusty  man  from  Prague,  whose  glib  tongue 
would  advance  his  cause  in  the  district. 
Now  and  then  he  advised  him  in  a  fatherly 
way  to  finish  that  affair  with  Lucy.  He  told 
him  he  was  convinced  that  he  was  acting  in 
an  honorable  manner,  but  the  voters  were  in 
that  respect  a  dull  lot  of  people,  and  would 
not  understand  such  a  rehabilitation  of  a 
girl's  virtue.  He  also  advised  him  to  be  wise 
and  get  married :  the  tax  collector's  Anda,  he 
said,  was  a  girl  full  of  life,  full  of  fire,  whose 
embrace  promised  many  happy  moments  to 
her  husband.  Jifi  always  warded  him  off 
with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  and  promised  that 
he  would  consider  it,  but  he  never  gave  it  any 
thought.  He  had  no  time  and  no  inclination 
for  that. 

While  smoking  his  cigar,  he  dreamed  en- 
ticing dreams  of  the  future.     He  was  sure  he 


MAGDALEN  179 

would  soon  take  unto  himself  the  tax  collec- 
tor's Anda.  A  sweet  sensation  thrilled  him, 
whenever  he  thought  of  her  embrace, —  but 
he  drove  away  these  pictures  like  golden 
flies.  His  soul  was  divided,  its  greater  half 
was  tending  elsewhere.  He  would  be  called 
to  the  Diet,  he  would  speak  there,  and  would 
be  a  great  man.  His  name  would  be  known 
to  the  whole  country,  the  whole  nation  would 
read  his  speeches  in  the  party's  press  and  in 
the  foreign  papers,  and  then  they  would  be 
reprinted  in  pamphlet  form.  At  times  dep- 
utations would  come,  and  they  would  ask  him 
this  and  that ;  he  would  receive  them  here,  in 
his  study  (he  proudly  looked  around  him, 
passing  his  fingers  through  his  sparse  hair) , 
he  would  answer  them  this  way  or  that,  would 
shake  hands  with  them,  would  see  them  to 
the  door.  .  .  .  The  mandate  to  the  Bohe- 
mian Diet  would  only  be  a  step  to  higher 
honors.  He  would  be  chosen  to  the  Aus- 
trian Diet, —  he  would  speak,  storm,  and 
thunder  in  Vienna, —  beyond  that  he  could 


180  MAGDALEN 

not  think,  his  dream  passed  away  in  a  whirl, 
he  inclined  his  head,  closed  his  eyes,  and 
drifted  off  in  a  pleasant  and  blissful  sea  of 
the  mysterious  future  days. 

Then  the ys  Gazette  began  the  fight 

in  earnest.  In  its  editorials  and  in  the  news 
of  the  day,  it  shot  off  its  arrows  at  Jiff,  his 
candidacy,  his  principles,  thoughts,  and 
plans.  The  speech  which  he  delivered  on  the 
island  was  called  the  babbling  of  a  political 
baby;  his  life  at  Prague  was  laid  bare,  and 
they  asked  the  question,  whether  that  was  a 
preparation  for  the  serious,  heavy  struggle 
for  the  holy  national  rights.  The  feuilleton, 
which  bore  the  title  "Behind  the  Curtain," 
was  interlarded  with  a  series  of  spicy  gossip 
which,  as  everybody  in  town  knew,  was  com- 
posed at  the  feminine  sessions  in  the  house 
near  the  common,  and  which  the  editor  of  the 
ruling  party  ( a  runaway  student  whose  light 
hair  of  the  color  of  straw  hung  down  to  his 
shoulders)  put  into  literary  form;  this  feu- 


MAGDALEN  181 

illeton  told  of  penitent  Magdalens,  of  Mag- 
dalene of  Egypt  and  of  Palestine,  one  with 
the  skull,  the  other  with  the  lion,  and  still  of  a 
third,  a  more  modern  Magdalen,  who,  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  the  earlier  ones,  was 
travelling  on  the  thorny  road  of  virtue, 
whither  the  future  leader  of  the  nation  had 
brought  her,  accompanied  by  the  wise  old 
aunt,  who  was  giving  them  her  blessing, 
—  quotation  marks  played  a  great  role  in 
these  attacks. 

The  Free  Citizen  was  not  behindhand,  and 
repaid  every  thrust  with  full  measure.  It 
had  the  scoffers  of  the  town  upon  its  side, 
and  in  its  illustrated  supplement  it  trampled 
upon  its  adversaries:  the  burgomaster  was 
there  represented  with  big  horns,  which  orna- 
ment the  burgomistress  and  the  councillor 
were  laughingly  attaching  to  his  temples; 
Frau  von  Janik,  the  commissary's  wife,  Frau 
von  Fischmeister,  and  the  whole  house  at  the 
corner  of  the  common  were  artistically  rep- 
resented,—  their  heads  were  scaly,  and  from 


182  MAGDALEN 

their  mouths  issued  long,  thin  tongues, 
forked  like  those  of  serpents,  or  they  ap- 
peared as  a  crowd  of  witches  flying  at  night 
on  broomsticks.  Every  two  weeks  five  or 
six  such  cartoons  hovered  above  the  greedy 
eyes  of  the  town.  And  the  texts !  .  .  . 

The  passion  of  fighting  took  possession  of 
the  whole  town  like  a  contagious  disease. 
Suddenly  the  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  were 
revived  in  the  once  simple-minded  people. 
The  courts  had  much  to  do :  to  return  to  some 
their  lost  honor,  and  to  punish  the  slanderers ; 
but  after  the  summons  the  witnesses  fell  to 
again  in  the  hallowed  corridors  of  the  court- 
house, whence  arose  new  trials,  new  punish- 
ments, and  higher  and  higher  appeals.  The 
Hussite  blood  was  throbbing  in  the  veins  of 
the  good  citizens ;  in  the  evenings  the  children 
of  God's  fighters  proved  their  opinions  in  the 
inns  with  their  fists  and  glasses.  Sons 
parted  from  fathers  in  anger,  brothers  from 
brothers, —  old  men  sternly  shook  their  grey 
heads  and  wrung  their  hands. 


MAGDALEN  183 

Lucy's  life  flowed  listlessly  along,  like  a 
long  autumn  day.  No  pain,  no  bitterness 
disturbed  her,  for  her  soul  no  longer  had  any 
strength  for  eruptive  ebullitions.  A  dull 
resignation,  like  a  November  cloud  from 
which  no  storm  issues,  veiled  her  thoughts. 
She  sat  at  the  window,  mechanically  knitting, 
while  her  eyes  roamed  over  the  waving  clover 
field,  without  seeing  it.  Only  common, 
every-day  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind. 

Frequently  a  word  occurred  to  her,  and  it 
kept  on  repeating  itself  inwardly ;  she  heard 
it,  she  understood  it,  until  she  said:  "Lo, 
this  word, —  how  foolish  it  is!"  Or  there 
occurred  to  her  a  novel  which  she  had  read 
some  time  before :  a  scene  which  then  had  in 
no  way  impressed  itself  upon  her,  now  stood 
out  vividly;  she  saw  its  characters  walking, 
speaking,  and  smiling, —  but  it  all  lasted  so 
long,  and  those  people  seemed  unable  to  get 
through.  Lucy  impatiently  moved  her 
hand,  as  if  to  hurry  them  up,  but  immediately 
she  thought :  "How  foolish  I  am !" 


184  MAGDALEN 

She  saw  the  picture  of  a  man, —  it  was  a 
poor  woodcutter, —  who  was  pushing  a 
wheelbarrow  full  of  wood  up  Vysocany  Hill. 
She  plainly  saw  his  strength  slowly  leaving 
him,  the  dark  veins  in  his  swarthy  temples 
were  filling  up  and  beating  fast,  and  she  saw 
his  knees  tremble, —  and  that  hill  was  still 
towering  above,  and  the  summit  was  not  to 
be  seen.  Warm  drops  of  perspiration 
trickled  down  Lucy's  forehead  and  cheeks, 
she  breathed  heavily,  as  if  she  herself  were 
pushing  that  load.  She  opened  her  eyes 
again,  and  drew  a  deep  breath, —  the  picture 
disappeared. 

There  occurred  to  her  a  few  bars  from 
familiar  songs,  and  a  few  words  that  went 
with  them,  strange,  incoherent  words,  and  it 
all  sounded  in  her  soul  endless  and  mo- 
notonous, like  the  telegraph  wires  in  some 
deserted  garden  on  a  murky  November 
day. 

Only  rarely  a  sharp,  nameless  feeling,  like 
the  prick  of  a  fine  needle,  stung  her, —  but 


MAGDALEN  185 

only  for  a  moment, —  her  soul  at  once  fell 
again  into  its  heavy  semi-sleep. 

The  old  lady  frequently  looked  into  her 
eyes:  something  yellow  quivered  in  them 
now,  and  blue  rings  around  them  made  them 
appear  deeper  in  their  sockets.  The  light 
breath  of  playful  merriment  and  mobility 
had  vanished,  and  there  remained  only  a 
long,  apathetic,  retired,  quiet  glance.  Her 
face  was  emaciated  and  of  the  color  of  yel- 
lowish alabaster.  Her  thin,  light  red  lips 
had  somehow  become  immovable.  Her 
every  motion  had  grown  heavier  and  more 
feeble.  For  the  remarks  and  jests  of  the 
old  lady,  for  books  and  reminiscences,  for 
everything,  she  had  but  a  weak,  melancholy 
smile. 

"She  is  like  a  caterpillar,"  often  thought 
the  old  lady,  "but  she  will  change  to  a  chrysa- 
lis." Only  rarely  and  but  for  a  moment,  she 
saw  Lucy's  whole  suppressed  life,  but  with 
the  childish  optimism  of  her  soul  she  thought 
that  everything  would  soon  be  different. 


186  MAGDALEN 

People  would  change,  and  would  look  upon 
Lucy  with  other  eyes;  all  would  be  well. 
The  old  lady  had  managed  through  her  long 
life  to  preserve  a  firm  faith  in  some  higher, 
unfailing  justice. 

One  holiday  forenoon  she  took  Lucy  to 
church.  They  seated  themselves  upon  one 
of  those  old  benches  that  gleam  with  a  dark, 
red-brown  sheen.  The  church  was  empty: 
Lucy  happened  to  be  looking  at  the  altar, — 
an  old  altar.  An  indistinguishable  black 
picture  in  a  gold  frame  was  hanging  between 
two  windows  whose  variegated  panes  colored 
the  light  from  without.  Four  saints,  sculp- 
tured by  the  inexperienced  hand  of  a  country 
artist,  were  standing  at  the  sides.  They 
were  gleaming  in  new,  bright  colors.  Lucy 
looked  at  them.  Their  smooth  faces  seemed 
comical  to  her,  for  the  renovating  painter  had 
indicated  with  a  bluish-grey  paint  the  traces 
of  their  shaven  hair  and  beard  upon  their 
sunken  cheeks.  She  looked  at  the  pillar  of 
dust  that  rose  obliquely  from  the  chequered 


MAGDALEN  187 

floor  to  the  colored  windows.  ...  It  was 
blue,  wavy,  and  light,  like  the  smoke  of  the 
censer,  and  reminded  her  of  the  little  church 
in  her  native  village  in  the  distant  mountains. 

The  church  then  began  to  fill  rapidly. 
The  flower  of  the  local  dignitaries,  in  costly 
garments,  bedecked  with  jewels,  stepped, 
rustling  noisily,  to  the  front. 

The  burgomistress,  in  her  peony-colored 
dress,  wearing  heavy  gold  circles  in  her  ears, 
sailed  in;  the  doctor's  wife  balanced  herself 
to  the  bench  like  a  pale-rose  fairy.  Lucy 
saw  her  neck  and  the  cunning  coiffure  of  her 
mobile  head  right  in  front  of  her. 

Then  in  came  Frau  von  Fischmeister, 
straight  and  stiff,  her  black  dress  fitting  her 
like  a  uniform. 

Frau  von  Janik  arrived  in  an  odd,  but  ex- 
pensive yellow  garment.  Clotild,  and  the 
wives  of  the  commissary,  the  postmaster,  Mr. 
Jiskra,  and  the  worthy  veterans  came  and 
seated  themselves.  The  ruling  party  was  in 
the  right  row,  the  ladies  of  the  Opposition  on 


188  MAGDALEN 

the  left.  Nobody  else  stepped  into  their 
pews.  The  ladies  who  came  later  turned 
back  and  stood  in  the  rear. 

That  bench  was  the  goal  towards  which 
the  eyes  of  the  curious  and  the  sedate  of  both 
parties  were  turned.  Nay,  excitement  was 
in  the  faces  of  the  pious  people,  as  if  their 
glances  said:  "How  did  she  dare  come  to 
the  temple  of  the  Lord?" 

An  old  deacon,  in  white,  gold-covered  vest- 
ments, served  high  mass,  with  the  assistance 
of  chaplains  and  ministrants.  From  the 
choir  thundered  the  organ  and  the  violins, 
accompanying  the  voices  of  the  patrician 
daughters, —  they  were  playing  Fiihrer's 
Mass. 

Sad  memories  stirred  Lucy's  soul  during 
that  playing;  she  thought  of  those  Sundays 
and  those  masses  when,  as  a  young  child,  she 
used  to  sing  at  mass.  Her  father  then 
played  the  organ.  The  sunlight  used  to  fall 
through  one  window  upon  a  gilt  angel, —  her 
first  love.  The  old  parish  priest  used  to  give 


MAGDALEN  189 

her  a  bright  silver  coin  after  every  mass. 
Meanwhile  the  mother  was  waiting  at  home 
in  the  kitchen  where  they  used  to  eat.  In 
that  whitewashed  kitchen  golden-green  flies 
flew  over  the  windowpanes. 

Lucy  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap, —  she 
prayed.  Her  lips  were  closed,  but  she 
prayed  inwardly,  mechanically,  from  mem- 
ory, without  aim  or  purpose, —  that  music, 
those  memories,  that  air  heavily-laden  with 
incense,  that  lonesome  emptiness  that  lay 
like  a  black  shroud  over  her  once  bright  life, 
evoked  in  her  an  ebullition  of  repining  piety. 

They  remained  alone  in  the  pew  after  the 
service. 

Even  in  the  open,  the  heat  of  the  July 
sun  and  the  noisy  stream  of  the  townspeople 
left  her  in  a  stupor.  She  drew  the  old  lady 
along  with  her  faster,  faster.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  big  dinner.  The  promised 
trusty  man  had  arrived  from  Prague. 
Upon  his  lips  were  jests  and  sweet  words 
(these  he  showered  upon  Jifi)  ;  he  wore  a 


190  MAGDALEN 

light  suit,  and  his  trousers  were  most  prop- 
erly creased  ( Jifi  frequently  cast  an  envious 
glance  at  them,  thinking  to  himself :  "What 
a  fine  fashion!  He  is  a  nice  fellow!")  He 
knew  everything  and  spoke  of  everything. 
He  was  all  things  imaginable,  a  politician, 
a  critic,  and  a  literary  man ;  he  was  a  soldier 
of  the  press  in  Prague,  and  he  supplied  five 
country  sheets  with  weighty  discussions  on 
our  situation;  in  the  columns  which  were  at 
his  disposal,  he  now  and  then  vented  his 
spleen  upon  this  and  that  man,  sullying  his 
name,  his  honor,  and  all  his  labors  (referring 
to  these  articles,  he  used  to  say:  "I  have 
this  day  written  some  social  news  from 
Prague").  He  knew  all  about  French, 
Russian,  Croatian,  and  Polish  affairs.  He 
was  a  phenomenon,  a  pillar  of  social  purity, 
a  secret  messenger  of  embassies,  a  man  of 
strength  who  knew  how  to  make  excellent 
use  of  every  bit  of  gossip, —  in  short,  a  man 
worth  his  weight  in  gold. 

At  dinner  he  treated  the  two  ladies  with 


MAGDALEN  191 

exquisite  civility,  but  he  looked  at  Lucy  now 
and  then,  as  if  to  say:  "We  know  a  thing 
or  two,  but  we  keep  quiet,  as  becomes  a  gen- 
tleman." 

His  conversation  was  exclusively  with  Jiff, 
that  is,  he  spoke,  and  Jiff  listened.  He 
knew  all  the  political  wires  behind  the  cur- 
tain, all  about  representatives,  journalists, 
and  ministers, —  he  knew  some  spicy  gossip 
or  anecdote  about  each,  and  at  every  oppor- 
tune moment  he  flattered  Jiff  with:  "Such 
and  such  a  fellow,  well!  But  you  are  all 
right!" 

Jiff  was  charmed  with  him.  After  dinner 
he  took  him  to  his  study,  where  the  gentle- 
man remarked  that  he  here  found  all  the 
familiar  signs  of  the  Bohemian  land,  which 
he  promised  to  take  a  look  at.  Jiff  read  his 
speeches  to  him.  In  the  meanwhile  the 
trusty  man  drank  wine  (good  wine!), 
smoked,  now  and  then  praised,  and  now 
again  burst  forth  into  full,  enthusiastic 
agreement. 


192  MAGDALEN 

Thereupon  Jiff  brought  out  from  the  cor- 
ner a  big  bundle  containing  one  thousand 
copies  of  The  Free  Citizen,  which  were  just 
ready  to  be  distributed.  The  paper  was 
headed  by  a  fine  poem  (the  local  young  as- 
sistant teacher  had  written  it  secretly  upon 
order),  which  apostrophized  the  elections, 
the  famous  elections,  the  July  elections! 
Then  there  were  references  to  the  knights  of 
Blanik,1  to  the  White  Mountain,  to  the 
Hussites,  the  older  and  the  more  recent  ones, 
to  the  new  era  in  the  history  of  the  Bohemian 
land,  and  so  forth, —  two  long,  closely  writ- 
ten columns. 

Dexterously  evolving  his  speech  from  that 
poem  at  the  head  of  the  paper,  the  trusty 
man  fell  to  talking  about  poems  and  poets, 
about  himself  and  about  criticism.  He  said 
he  was  stern  and  unbending,  and  therefore 
he  had  enemies  among  the  poets.  But  what 
was  our  poetry  for  anyway?  Had  any  one 

i  A  legend  tells  that  there  are  enchanted  knights  on 
mount  Blanik,  who  will  awaken  only  when  Bohemia  is 
hardest  pressed,  in  order  to  free  it  from  its  foes. 


MAGDALEN  193 

among  us  ever  written  an  "Orlando  Fu- 
ioso"?  or  a  "Paradise  Lost"?  "Lusiads"?  a 
"Faust"?  a  "Divine  Comedy"?  Vain  con- 
ceit !  What  then  have  we  ?  Only  a  few  thin 
booklets  of  verses,  "Morning  songs,"  "New 
songs,"  then  "Songs  of  Zavis."  (It  was  he 
who  had  discovered  and  properly  valued 
them.)  What  was  there  else?  Vrchlicky?1 
Hem!  He  at  once  subjected  them  to  his 
venomous  criticism,  though  he  admitted  that 
he  had  talent,  that  it  was  possible  that  he 
would  soon  write  a  great  work,  that  his  forty 
books  so  far  were  nothing  but  flimsy  toys. 
And  the  others?  Shame,  shame!  We  have 
versifying  artisans,  but  no  poets.  WTiat 
about  Sladek?  Nothing.  He  does  not 
write  like  Homer,  Krasnohorska  2  does  not 
write  like  Zola,  and  Zola  himself  ought  to 
write  not  as  he  does,  but  as  Tolstoy.  He 
was  not  striking  at  them  now  for  the  first 

1  Emil    Bohu§    Frida    (pseudonym    Jaroslav   Vrchlick^), 
1853-,  greatest  poet  of  the  older  generation. 

2  Eligka  Krasnohorska,  one  of  the  more  prominent  women 
novelists,  born  1857. 


194  MAGDALEN 

time,  nor  calumniating  them, —  he  had 
written  publicly  about  this  matter. 

Our  younger  generation?  A  barren  wil- 
derness. Machar  had  lately  published  some 
political  poems, —  he  had  given  them  a  fine 
raking  over !  What  impudence !  A  poet  to 
meddle  with  politics!  He  wants  to  over- 
throw public  orators,  state  rights,  and  Pan- 
slavism  with  the  work  of  a  journalist!  He 
wants  to  be  the  nation's  physician!  As  if 
he  did  not  have  stars,  the  moon,  spring,  flow- 
ers, the  rustle  of  the  forest,  brooks!  Our 
poesy  has  been  so  long  growing  fat  on  such 
subjects, —  why  should  it  all  of  a  sudden  be 
different?  And  he  proceeded  not  only  to 
berate  him  for  this,  but  also  for  his  whole 
activity,  and  not  only  the  activity  of  the  self- 
confident  rebel,  but  his  honor  and  name  as 
well. 

Jiff,  who  listened  to  him  only  with  half  an 
ear,  and  did  not  quite  understand  what  he 
did  hear,  showed  him  the  further  contents 
of  the  spicy  news:  his  own  life,  written  in  a 


MAGDALEN  195 

very  elaborate  style;  the  platform  on  which 
he  was  to  stand  before  the  voters;  a  sharp 
review  of  the  whole  labors  of  the  man  who 
had  represented  that  district  for  ten  years; 
some  terrible  statistics  of  the  tribute  that 
flows  from  our  country  to  Vienna;  a  few 
paltry  figures  of  what  returns  to  us  from 
there, —  and  many  more  bombs,  every  one  of 
which  was  sufficient  to  blow  up  the  safest 
stronghold  of  the  adherents  of  the  ruling 
party.  The  trusty  man  promised  future 
glory  and  future  greatness  for  him.  They 
continued  drinking,  and  talked  enthusiasti- 
cally until  late  in  the  evening. 

After  dinner  Lucy  went  into  the  castle 
park.  It  was  quiet.  On  the  horizon  rose 
gloomy,  ill-boding  clouds.  Not  a  leaf  was 
stirring.  Grey  dust  was  lying  everywhere, 
on  the  trees,  the  bushes,  and  the  grass.  The 
heavy  odor  of  acacias  was  mixed  with  that  of 
the  walnut  leaves,  sage,  and  yellow  roses. 
Hundreds  of  shrill-voiced  swallows  circled 


196  MAGDALEN 

up  in  the  air,  around  the  many-colored  tower. 

Lucy  walked  over  the  old  steps,  over  the 
path  which  looked  as  though  covered  with 
snow, —  the  white  petals  of  the  bird-cherry 
blossoms  lay  there. 

All  around  was  quiet.  Lucy  looked  in- 
quisitively into  all  the  side-paths.  It  was 
quiet  everywhere.  A  small  woodpecker  was 
pecking  somewhere  at  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 
The  chatter  of  the  swallows  reached  her  from 
the  tower,  now  lightly,  now  more  distinctly. 

Lucy  walked  faster. 

There  was  the  bench, —  how  strongly  her 
heart  beat  then!  The  blood  rushed  to  her 
face  like  fire.  .  .  .  The  bench  was  empty. 
.  .  .  The  stifling  air  around  her  was  oppres- 
sive, as  with  some  old  perfume.  .  .  . 
Threads  of  cobwebs  stuck  to  her  cheeks,  and 
pestering  gnats  beat  into  her  face. 

Lucy  said  to  herself  that  she  was  out  for 
a  walk  only,  that  she  did  not  expect  any- 
thing,—  but  she  walked  on  more  rapidly,  and 


MAGDALEN  197 

she  kept  on  looking  into  every  corner,  at 
every  bench, —  all  was  deserted. 

Twice  she  crossed  the  whole  park.  The 
sunlight  grew  more  yellow.  A  heavy  mist 
was  thickening  for  rain.  The  leaves  began 
to  stir  gently,  as  if  from  fear  of  the  coming 
moment. 

Suddenly  the  bell  in  the  tower  of  the  town 
church  tolled  the  knell  of  death.  Those 
groaning,  penetrating  sounds  spread  with 
their  full  force,  and,  reflected  by  the  wall 
and  the  trees,  re-echoed  here  a  second  time. 

A  certain  terror  suddenly  took  possession 
of  Lucy.  She  inclined  her  head  and  hurried 
on,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  some  one  was 
looking  at  her  from  somewhere,  some  one  for 
whom  she  had  to-day  been  searching  in  vain. 
The  last  few  days  she  had  not  succeeded  in 
bringing  his  picture  before  her  eyes,  but  now 
she  saw  him  clearly  outlined :  he  was  looking 
so  peacefully  at  her,  and  yet  there  was  so 
much  terror  in  his  pale  features. 


198  MAGDALEN 

The  funereal  bell  continued  ringing.  She 
walked  rapidly  over  the  steps  and  through 
the  avenue  of  trees,  and  out  of  the  park. 

The  aunt  was  standing  in  the  yard  and 
speaking  with  the  stewardess. 

"They  think,  Lucy,  the  poor  fellow  has 
died,"  she  called  out  to  her. 

That  short  sentence  stirred  every  nerve  of 
hers.  And  yet,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  had 
known  it  before,  that  somebody  had  told  her 
so  in  the  park.  She  did  not  ask  who  it  was, 
she  did  not  ask  anything, —  she  knew  it 
all. 


fTlHE  Bohemian  crown  was  gleaming  on 
A  the  facade  in  its  golden  splendor,  and 
below  it  hung  the  familiar  wreath  of  dry, 
pine  twigs.  Through  a  passage-way,  per- 
meated with  greasy  smells  which  issued  from 
the  open  door  of  the  kitchen,  one  crossed  the 
yard,  mounted  seven  steps,  and  entered  a 
garden.  Here  chestnut  trees  spread  their 
thick  foliage  over  white  tables.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  every  one  of  these  stood  large  lamps, 
against  which  gnats  and  moths  were  beating 
blindly.  Around  these  tables,  in  careless  po- 
sitions and  at  ease,  sat  the  citizens  of  the 
town, —  only  those,  of  course,  who  had  joined 
the  banner  of  the  Opposition, —  for  the  foot 
of  the  ruling  party  would  never,  never  stum- 
ble against  the  "crown."  They  sat  there 
conversing,  talking  politics  and  judging  this 


199 


200  MAGDALEN 

or  that  man,  as  the  case  might  be,  drinking 
three  or  four  glasses  of  liquor,  smoking,  sub- 
mitting to  the  enticement  of  cards, —  and 
then  they  went  home. 

Under  the  veranda,  whose  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  a  whole  mass  of  pictures  cut  out 
of  our  leading  periodicals,  the  dignitaries  sat 
at  a  round  table.  Here  they  discussed  poli- 
tics in  the  higher  style :  local,  national,  Aus- 
trian, and  European  affairs  were  rummaged 
through  in  all  seriousness.  Here  the  strate- 
gical doctor  placed  his  men  on  the  town- 
hall  chessboard,  ready  for  any  attack.  Here 
the  initiated  ones  learned  from  still  wet  man- 
uscripts of  the  little  scandals  and  inventives 
that  The  Free  Citizen  would  contain  in  its 
next  number.  In  her  anxiety,  the  burgo- 
mistress  frequently  saw  that  veranda,  at 
about  half  past  eight  in  the  evening,  blown 
up  by  the  dynamite  of  anarchists, —  an  en- 
chanting picture, —  what  a  pity  that  it  was 
only  a  picture ! 

Nine  o'clock.     The  garden  was  merged  in 


MAGDALEN  201 

a  yellow  light.  It  was  filled.  A  small  rain- 
storm had  in  the  afternoon  cooled  off  the 
stifling  heat,  and  the  air  felt  fresh  and  pleas- 
ant. 

A  long  table  was  placed  upon  the  veranda. 
The  cream  of  the  Opposition  was  in  full  at- 
tendance. The  doctor,  Jiff,  with  the  trusty 
partisan  from  Prague,  Captain  Knotek, 
merchant  Jiskra,  the  tax  collector,  the  apoth- 
ecary and  both  the  adjuncts,  Alderman 
Vrzal,  Doctor  medicinse  universes  Hehak, 
grocer  Vrba,  the  president  of  the  citizen's 
club,  the  veteran  worthies  (only  the  white) , 
—  all  were  there,  and  all  were  elated,  for 
they  had  with  them,  as  the  guest  of  Jifi,  a 
good  friend  of  the  doctor's,  the  gentleman 
from  Prague,  who  was  a  part  of  the  centre 
of  politics,  and  who  brought  them  a  light 
from  there,  together  with  a  variety  of  spicy 
stories.  They  listened  with  apparent  atten- 
tion to  what  was  being  said  at  the  table,  but 
at  the  same  time  they  were  racking  their 
brains  to  think  of  something  to  say  them- 


202  MAGDALEN 

selves,  and  when  to  say  it,  in  order  to  pass 
for  very  brilliant  fellows,  and  to  attract  the 
attention  of  all  around  the  table. 

They  were  debating  in  a  lively  manner. 

Grocer  Vrba  was  praising  the  latest  article 
in  the  National  Gazette,  entitled:  "Well, 
Bohemian  people,  judge  for  yourselves!" 
( Our  people, —  reader,  pardon  your  author's 
precision  in  reporting, —  have  to  be  the  su- 
perior stern  judges  of  all  the  steps  of  their 
representatives.  Our  people  are  an  enlight- 
ened nation,  who,  with  their  sound  instinct, 
will  find  out  what  is  for  their  good,  and  what 
will  harm  them.  Our  people  have  long  ago 
seen  through  the  cowardly,  degenerate  poli- 
tics of  the  impoverished  ruling  party.  Our 
people  will  drive  the  party  before  the  judge's 
seat,  and  will  judge  it.  They  will  find  de- 
termined, energetic  men  for  an  extreme  op- 
position, and  they  will  thunder  at  the  Bo- 
hemian Diet  in  quite  a  diif erent  voice.  Our 
people  will  also  send  different  people  to 
Vienna.  There  they  will  speak  in  quite  a 


MAGDALEN  203 

different  manner.  Our  two-tailed  lion  must 
show  himself  in  all  his  power.  For  twelve 
years  has  the  venal  ruling  party  been  leading 
him  in  chains  around  in  the  circus,  to  be 
laughed  at  by  rascals,  to  the  country's  shame. 
That  carnal  sin  must  be  stopped  at  once. 
Our  people  support  the  whole  Empire  by 
their  labors,  and  so  they  are  asking  only  for 
their  sacred  rights,  and  they  will  get  them. 
To  those  who  knock,  it  shall  be  opened. 
New  people  will  be  knocking  with  their 
mighty  fists, —  and  so  forth.  In  all,  there 
were  some  three  columns  of  that  matter.) 

The  trusty  man  smiled  significantly  and 
mysteriously,  as  one  who  always  and  in 
everything  looks  behind  the  curtain. 

The  apothecary  had  been  hemming  for  a 
while,  and  he  seated  himself  in  another  chair 
and  wrung  his  hands.  Something  was  try- 
ing to  issue  from  his  throat  but  would  not 
come,  until  the  gentleman  from  Prague  cast 
a  kindly  glance  at  him,  which  gave  him  cour- 


204  MAGDALEN 

It  was  no  wonder,  he  said,  that  in  the  coun- 
try, away  from  the  main  stream,  everything 
was  not  quite  clear.  The  patriots  were  al- 
ways fighting  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  all 
present  belonged  to  the  Opposition, —  he,  the 
apothecary,  too, —  yet  he  was  not  quite  clear 
about  some  things, —  for  example,  what  was 
the  difference  between  the  Old-Cechs  and 
the  Young-Cechs  ? 

Having  said  that,  he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

The  doctor  jumped  up,  flushing. 

"It  is  a  joke,  just  a  little  joke  of  our 
friend,  the  apothecary,"  and  he  turned  to  the 
trusty  man,  as  if  burning  with  shame. 

The  latter  laughed,  apparently  accepting 
the  challenge. 

"It  would  not  be  strange,  however,"  he 
began  in  a  dignified  manner,  "if  the  gentle- 
man meant  it  in  all  seriousness.  That  ques- 
tion has  been  put  hundreds  of  times  in  Bo- 
hemia. The  distinction  can  easily  be  dem- 
onstrated by  the  following  metaphor :  Here 
is  a  corner,"  and  he  turned  up  the  white 


MAGDALEN  205 

table  cloth  from  the  edge  of  the  table, — "the 

V 

Old-Cech  comes, —  tries  it,  pulls  it,  twists  it, 
but  the  corner  does  not  budge.  That  cor- 
ner, notice,  is  Vienna's  good  will.  The  Old- 
Cech  sits  down  peacefully,  and  with  his  nails 
scratches  off  a  few  splinters,  and  is  quiet. 
The  Young-Cech  comes,  takes  a  look  at  it, — 
the  corner  is  immovable, —  so  he  bangs  at  it 
with  his  fist,  until  the  corner  falls  into  his  lap. 
That  is  the  distinction." 

Saying  this,  the  trusty  man  banged  upon 
the  corner  of  the  table. 

As  if  overhearing  the  sigh  of  relief  which 
alderman  Vrzal  breathed,  the  trusty  man 
continued  with  importance  to  discuss  the 
opposition  of  the  Croatians  and  that  of  the 
Irish.  He  colored  his  speech  with  much 
humor  and  many  witticisms,  which  Bismarck 
and  Napoleon  had  used  before  him.  In 
places  he  wove  in  a  whole  anecdote,  which 
was  very  entertaining,  though  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  purpose  at  hand.  After  an 
effective  sentence  (the  trusty  man  wanted 


206  MAGDALEN 

to  pass  once  more  to  our  affairs),  captain 
Knotek  swiftly  rose  to  his  feet  and  took  the 
floor. 

He  was  a  pensioner  who  had  joined  the 
Opposition  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
it  was  an  opposition.  He  passed  in  the 
town  for  a  tactful  and  many-sided  man,  who 
always  knew  what  to  do,  and  who  always 
spoke  interestingly  upon  any  subject.  His 
opinion  carried  weight.  He  had  entered  the 
military  career  from  pique.  He  was  one  of 
those  old  sons  of  Mars,  who  everywhere  im- 
press people  by  their  rounded  culture, — 
they  attentively  read  Weber's  "Democritos" 
five  or  six  times, —  the  only  book  they  ever 
read  through. 

He  spoke  solemnly  and  deliberately  of  the 
Armada,  by  two  or  three  leaps  passed  over 
to  Temesvar,  where,  he  said,  he  had  stayed 
ten  years,  then  led  up  to  Hungary,  to  their 
sharp  political  contest,  to  their  nobility  who 
were  always  in  the  van  of  every  action.  He 
made  comparisons  and  similes,  and  finished, 


MAGDALEN  207 

measuring  with  his  eyes  the  sympathy  of  his 
hearers. 

So  time  flowed  on.  A  tiny  waiter  kept 
bringing  the  dark-brown  fluid  in  glasses 
with  colored  lids.  There  was  a  subdued 
murmur  around  the  table,  and  the  tobacco 
smoke  hovered  in  bluish  circles  about  the 
lights. 

The  conversation  became  more  trifling. 
Now  Jiff,  now  the  doctor,  or  the  apothecary, 
dropped  a  few  remarks.  Our  nobility  was 
condemned  by  all.  Our  strength  and  our 
salvation  lay  only  in  a  pure  democracy.  In 
half  a  century  there  would  be  no  such  thing 
as  aristocracy,  just  as  America  no  longer 
had  any. 

Merchant  Jiskra  spoke  in  elegiac  tones  of 
that  real  aristocracy  of  our  blood  which  went 
down  on  the  Old-Town  Square,1  or  was 
drowned  in  a  far-off,  foreign  sea. 

A  weak  smile  appeared  on  the  doctor's 

i  On  June  21,  1621,  twenty-seven  of  the  leaders  of  the 
insurrection  were  executed  there. 


208  MAGDALEN 

dry  face,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Merchant 
Jiskra  spoke  in  the  same  elegiac  tones  of 
the  aristocracy  a  week  ago,  and  in  the  same 
words," —  but  he  kept  silent. 

"Maybe,"  added  Jiskra,  this  time  going 
beyond  his  usual  custom,  "things  would  have 
been  different  with  us,  if  that  aristocracy 
still  existed." 

The  collector  shook  his  head,  but  contin- 
ued smoking.  The  adjuncts  drew  a  deep 
sigh. 

The  trusty  man  again  unbent  himself  for 
another  speech.  No  other  European  na- 
tion, he  said,  was  in  such  a  position  as  we. 
The  blood  of  slaves  runs  in  our  veins.  Who 
was  left  after  the  battle  at  the  White 
Mountain?  Cowardly  people,  renegades, 
traitors  of  their  faith.  Their  thin  blood  had 
mingled  with  the  blood  of  a  mob  of  foreign 
intruders.  It  is  true,  there  was  once  such 
a  crowd  in  ancient  Rome, —  outlaws,  thieves, 
and  rough  soldiers, —  the  town  of  Romulus 
had  grown  up  and  flourished  with  them ;  but 


MAGDALEN  209 

with  us  it  was  different.  The  accursed  blood 
is  even  now  coursing  through  our  veins. 
Our  people  are  wretched,  without  principle ! 
Here  is  an  example:  in  his  journeys  through 
Austria  he  had  found  countrymen  in  the 
most  distant  places,  but  always  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  police !  Shame,  shame ! 

These  words  produced  a  strong  impres- 
sion. Captain  Knotek  shook  his  head ;  Vrzal 
in  despair  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
which  was  parted  in  the  middle;  merchant 
Jiskra  looked  in  dismay  at  the  National 
Gazette,  and  at  the  words  "Well,  Bohemian 
people,  judge  for  yourselves!"  but  he  was 
afraid  to  say  anything.  The  tax  collector 
took  long  and  rapid  puffs  at  his  cigar ;  a  sad 
expression  shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  adjuncts. 
Only  Jifi  and  the  doctor  were  unmoved: 
they  had  heard  those  flourishes  at  least 
twenty  times  before ;  there  was  a  time  when 
they  had  been  powerfully  affected  by  them, 
but  now  they  were  impervious  to  them. 

Doctor  medicinse  universae  Hehak  cleaned 


210  MAGDALEN 

his  glasses,  blinking  his  grey  eyes  at  the 
trusty  man  in  a  provoking  manner : 

"You,  sir,  I  judge,"  said  he,  in  a  rasping 
voice,  "are  a  follower  of  the  theory  of 
heredity.  I  will  tell  you  straight  that  it  is 
nonsense.  ...  It  is  just  so  with  diseases. 
Somebody,  somewhere,  sits  down  to-day, 
scowls,  then  opens  his  eyes  wide,  takes  up  his 
pen,  and  begins  to  scribble:  I  have  found 

a  new  disease, —  morbus icus, —  and  so 

forth.  He  writes  a  book  about  it,  or  sends 
an  article  to  some  magazine,  and  three 
months  later  three  hundred  people  really  are 

affected  with  morbus icus,  and  they  go 

to  the  dogs.  So  it  is  with  everything. 
People  do  not  know  what  to  do,  so  they  con- 
coct theories  and  systems,  and  put  them 
into  print.  Suddenly  the  thought  comes 
to  somebody:  theory  of  heredity!  Good! 
Drive  everybody  into  this  straight- jacket, 
here  a  family,  there  a  family, —  or  a  whole 
nation, —  what  difference  does  it  make? 
These  stories  are  exceedingly  clever,  they 


MAGDALEN  211 

are  striking.  And  when  hatched  out, 
they  all  have  a  philosophical  shell.  Keep 
on  driving!  Reimf  dich  oder  ich  tress* 
dich.  .  .  ." 

"Hold  on!"  cried  the  apothecary  in  a 
loud  voice.  "Put  six  kreuzers  in  the  box! 
That's  the  fine  for  talking  German,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  trusty  man. 

Hehak  threw  a  ten  kreuzer  piece  into  a  tin 
box.  "I  assert,"  he  continued  even  more 
earnestly,  "that  the  people  are  good.  They 
are  of  better  stuff  than  you  will  find  any- 
where else.  How  many  are  there  of  us? 
Count  them  up !  And  yet  think  of  the  taxes 
we  have  to  pay!  We  do  it  all  without  a 
murmur,  bah,  what  do  I  say?  Our  nation 
pays  them  with  a  sense  of  pride.  It  submits 
to  discipline,  and  what  discipline!  I  beg 
you,  think  of  the  elections  in  the  seventies! 
That  was  a  time  of  trial  and  of  strength! 
How  those  hard  skulls  stood  out  like  a  wall 
against  Vienna!  You  call  this  degenerated 
blood?  The  devil!  Goto!  The  people  are 


212  MAGDALEN 

all  right, —  may  the  lightning  strike  only 
their  leaders!  .  .  . 

"Again  I  ask  you  to  consider  the  stacks  of 
books  which  the  printing-press  distributes 
every  year  in  the  country !  What  a  mass  of 
printed  sheets !  —  I  mean  your  newspapers ! 
Do  you  know,  gentlemen,  what  gigantic 
tribute  the  nation  pays  for  its  enlighten- 
ment? If  you  only  gave  the  nation  enlight- 
enment! Bah,  here  you  place  it  on  the 
throne  as  your  sovereign, —  just  look  here, 
I  beg  you,"  he  pointed  to  the  National 
Gazette, —  "and  if  the  people  do  not  elect 
you,  they  are  a  lot  of  blind  dullards.  You 
excite  their  enthusiasm,  which  you  ought  to 
guard  like  gold,  to  a  wild  passion.  A 
hundred  times  a  year  you  strain  their 
strength  to  shoot  at  an  ephemeral  tar- 
get. .  .  .  You  throw  them  like  a  ball  some- 
where into  the  skies,  and  then  let  them  drop 
again  to  the  ground.  You  promise  them 
paradise,  and  when  they,  when  the  people, 
come  like  spoiled  children  and  begin  to  cry, 


MAGDALEN  213 

you  say :  'Hem,  our  nation  has  inherited 
accursed,  degenerate  blood, —  it's  all  in  vain. 
Shame,  shame.  .  .  .' 

"I  could  go  on  endlessly.  .  .  . 

"But  I  will  only  say:  Our  people  are  a 
stream  of  a  great  and  mighty  river,  and  he 
who  wants  to  be  in  the  lead,  ought  to  make  it 
his  aim  to  find  out  their  strength  and  to 
utilize  it  intelligently  for  the  great  work,  and 
he  ought  not  to  seat  himself  in  a  boat  and, 
raising  a  little  banner,  let  himself  be  carried 
God  knows  whither." 

Doctor  medicinse  universes  Hehak  was 
red  in  the  face,  and  he  took  a  mighty 
draught. 

(Reader,  the  author  in  no  way  identifies 
himself  with  &ehak :  it  is  the  latter  who  said 
these  things, —  let  the  inquisitorial  sentence 
fall  upon  him.  The  author  washes  his  hands 
of  the  affair.  It  was  imprudent  of  &ehak 
to  contradict  that  gentleman  from  Prague, 
that  gentleman  with  influence  and  a  sharp 
pen,  who,  when  the  proper  time  comes,  will 


214  MAGDALEN 

pay  ftehak  back  for  it  in  his  customary 
manner.) 

The  speech  had  very  little  effect  at  the 
table.  Everybody  felt  the  painfulness  of 
the  situation:  &ehak  had  too  sharply  crit- 
icised the  gentleman  from  Prague.  Indeed, 
&ehak  had  gotten  into  the  ranks  of  the  Op- 
position by  mistake.  He  was  not  liked 
there,  but  he  remained  imperturbed,  like  a 
blind  man.  He  opposed  every  speech.  He 
had  but  one  good  point :  he  did  not  get  into 
discussions, —  he  said  what  he  had  to  say, 
then  he  remained  silent. 

The  trusty  man  began  once  more  to  speak 
tactfully.  He  smoothly  deduced  from  the 
speech  just  made  that  in  its  main  points  it 
exactly  agreed  with  what  he  himself  would 
have  said  in  regard  to  the  social  question. 
He  then  sketched  conditions  abroad  and  at 
home.  He  proclaimed  that  our  nation  never 
dared  show  its  color,  or  it  would  cease  to 
exist.  The  townspeople  and  the  peasantry, 
—  in  them  was  the  strength  of  the  real  Bo- 


MAGDALEN  215 

hemian  people,  the  laboring  class  was  our 
Hecuba.  The  problem  must  be  solved,  but 
not  by  us.  Our  nation  had  solved  European 
questions  twice,  in  the  case  of  the  Hussites 
and  at  the  White  Mountain, —  he  came  very 
near  getting  excited  (Doctor  llehak  again 
moved  impatiently  and  softly  mumbled  in 
his  beard :  "Eternally  that  one  theory ;  gen- 
tlemen, it  will  some  day  spoil  your  reputa- 
tion !" )  That  may  be  the  task  of  other  great 
nations,  but  we  will  simply  take  the  shelled 
kernel, —  thus  the  trusty  man  proceeded,  and 
again  he  became  humorous,  and  wove  in  an- 
ecdotes, and  won  applause,  awakening  a 
whole  swarm  of  ideas,  opinions,  dreams,  and 
wishes. 

After  that  the  conversation  threw  off  its 
high  buskin. 

Hostinsky  (a  fat,  portly  man,  who  had  in 
his  youth  served  for  ten  years  in  the  infantry 
as  trumpeter,  and  who  was  the  second  in 
command  of  the  veterans, —  the  white  ones, 
—  a  rich  man  whose  yearning  was  all 


216  MAGDALEN 

directed  towards  one  goal, —  an  alderman's 
seat  in  the  townhall)  placed  his  chair  at  the 
table  and  addressed  himself  to  Jiff,  saying 
that  he,  Jiff,  ought,  as  a  representative,  to 
see  to  it  that  their  native  town  was  properly 
recognized.  He  showed  vividly  how  the 
whole  district  would  be  abloom,  how  the  town 
would  be  flowing  with  gold.  He  further 
urged  that  Jiff  ought  to  persuade  the  gov- 
ernment to  give  the  town  a  garrison,  say,  of 
dragoons  (he  adorned  his  whole  speech  with 
conjunctions:  "howbeit,"  "whereas,"  "there- 
fore," "if") ,  and  he  thought  Jiff  should  take 
a  local  deputation  to  the  ministers,  should 
talk  to  them,  and  intercede  for  his  people, 
just  as  is  usually  done. 

Jiff  promised  that  he  would  do  so. 

So  time  passed,  and  they  drank  and 
smoked.  The  peaceful  conversation  cen- 
tred about  the  town,  its  hopes,  its  people. 
The  ruling  party  came  in  for  their  share, 
first  the  men,  then  the  women,  and  spicy 


MAGDALEN  217 

gossip  touched  now  this  one,  now  that  one. 
All  were  laughing. 

The  apothecary  told  about  Clotild,  the 
faded  beauty  of  the  house  in  the  corner  of 
the  common,  and  he  told  of  that  meeting  and 
of  the  racy  conversation  of  the  town  ladies, 
which  Miss  Clotild  had  overheard  behind  the 
door.  Then  he  suddenly  stopped, —  he  had 
to  mention  Lucy,  but  he  did  not  know  how. 

Here  the  doctor  helped  him.  "We  all 
know  that  .  .  ."  and  he  proceeded  to  tell 
the  story  himself.  There  was  a  burst  of 
laughter. 

Then  he  turned  excitedly  to  Jifi.  "Tell 
us  yourself,  what  are  the  real  facts  concern- 
ing the  girl?  All  the  women  are  so  down  on 
her.  Of  course,  I  understand,  she  is  a  fine- 
looking  girl.  My  wife  is  quite  liberal,  but 
she  will  not  hear  of  her.  Is  it  true,  what 
they  say  of  you  and  her?  You  are  among 
friends  here!" 

Jifi  slowly  lighted  a  cigarette.     Some- 


218  MAGDALEN 

thing  was  agitating  his  breast,  as  if  the  next 
moment  he  were  to  vault  into  the  saddle  of  a 
tall  horse,  and,  when  up  there,  to  catch  the 
look  of  admiration  which  the  people  would 
cast  at  him. 

He  told  the  whole  incident :  the  meeting  in 
that  house,  the  first  pure  impression,  her 
father,  her  soul,  his  desire  to  bring  her  back 
to  decent  society  (he  mentioned  himself  only 
in  a  superficial,  off-hand  way).  He  spoke 
of  the  reserved  manner  which  had  since 
fallen  upon  her,  and  of  the  pleasure  which 
his  aunt  had  in  her;  excitedly  he  denied  all 
the  contemptible  tales  which  were  told  of  her 
in  the  town,  and  he  said  that  he  did  not  un- 
derstand it,  but  that  he  knew  the  people  well 
enough  to  realize  that  they  were  only  judg- 
ing her  by  themselves,  just  as  every  judg- 
ment in  general  was  only  a  sentence  of  the 
judger's  faults. 

He  stopped.  The  doctor  arose,  lifted  his 
glass,  and  gave  a  solemn  address  in  praise 
of  pure  humanity,  and  in  praise  of  Jiri. 


MAGDALEN  219 

There  were  cries  of  "Glory!",  and  they 
drank,  and  clinked  their  glasses.  Jifi 
bowed. 

Subjects  of  conversation  were  running 
low.  Only  a  word  fell  here  and  there. 
Old  gentlemen  began  to  look  at  their 
watches:  it  was  eleven.  The  garden  was 
getting  empty.  Only  in  a  few  places  were 
cards  being  played.  The  surfaces  of  the 
empty  tables  reflected  the  lamplight.  The 
tiny  waiter  was  falling  asleep  in  a  dark  cor- 
ner. The  gentlemen  arose,  paid  their  ac- 
counts, and  went  away. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night.  Thousands  of 
gleaming  stars  were  twinkling  in  the  dark 
heavens.  A  moist,  fresh  breeze  was  waft- 
ing fragrance  from  the  nearby  gardens. 

The  doctor,  the  trusty  man,  and  Jifi  were 
walking  together.  Their  steps  re-echoed  at 
the  other  end  of  the  street.  They  walked  in 
silence.  A  night  watchman  was  somewhere 
singing  off  the  eleventh  hour.  The  mourn- 
ful barking  of  a  dog  was  heard  somewhere 


220  MAGDALEN 

in  the  distance.  Below  was  the  roar  of  the 
water  falling  from  a  dam  of  the  Elbe. 

The  doctor  stopped:  "But  do  tell  me, 
Jifi,  how  can  a  man  do  so?  Is  your  relation 
to  that  girl  really  so  pure,  let  us  say,  pla- 
tonic?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jiff,  sharply  and  confidently. 

The  doctor  burst  out:  "Do  you  know, 
my  dear  fellow,  forgive  me  for  saying  it,  but 
I  think  you're  an  ass!" 

" A-ass,  a-ass !"  he  added,  accentuating  the 
words  with  a  tune  from  the  "Troubadours," 
sung  in  a  dry,  rasping  bass. 


XI 

IN  black  clothes,  just  as  Jifi  had  brought 
her  away  that  night,  and  in  a  black  hat, 
from  which  a  long  veil  fell  over  her  face,  with 
her  sunshade  tilted  more  to  guard  against 
the  eyes  of  the  people  than  against  the  sun, 
Lucy  walked  at  about  two  o'clock  in  the  aft- 
ernoon over  the  common  to  the  cemetery. 

The  day  was  clear.  Again  there  had  been 
a  rainstorm  in  the  night,  and  the  walls  of 
the  houses  were  still  wet  in  places.  Some- 
thing blue  and  shining  was  tremulously  fall- 
ing through  the  air  to  the  ground,  as  if  the 
pure  azure  were  descending  from  the  im- 
measurable, smiling  heavens. 

Chattering  swallows,  flying  low,  shot 
through  the  streets,  and  their  little,  metal- 
blue  bodies  sparkled  in  the  sunlight.  Full- 
blown, many-colored  heads  of  roses,  azaleas, 
221 


222  MAGDALEN 

violets,  fuchsias,  and  geraniums,  were  bend- 
ing out  of  the  open  windows,  and  slender  ole- 
ander trees  with  their  bunches  of  rose-col- 
ored flowers  were  standing  at  the  doors  of 
houses.  School  children,  walking  up  the 
street  towards  the  common,  stopped  now 
and  then.  A  merchant,  a  candy  seller,  a  toy- 
shop, an  unreadable  advertisement  on  the 
wall, —  everything  interested  and  fasci- 
nated them.  People  stood  in  the  doors  of 
their  shops,  looked  out  of  windows,  or  gath- 
ered in  groups  in  the  street, —  everybody 
seemed  to  enjoy  living  that  day.  From 
their  eyes,  their  movements,  and  their  car- 
riage, from  their  smiles  and  conversations, 
breathed  the  elasticity  of  energy. 

Lucy's  soft,  passive  soul  took  in  all  that 
splendor  with  delight.  She  was  like  a  pris- 
oner who,  while  taking  the  air,  feels  the  heat 
of  the  sun:  she  drew  herself  together,  half 
closed  her  eyes,  and  dreamed,  and  warmed 
herself.  While  she  watched  the  swallows,  the 
flowers  in  the  windows,  the  crystal  air,  the 


MAGDALEN  223 

azure  of  the  sky,  the  school  children,  the  peo- 
ple who  walked  by,  she  thought  of  the  de- 
ceased man.  She  thought  of  him  so  peace- 
fully, so  simply,  without  pain,  without  pity, 
that  she  was  frightened  at  herself. 

"I  am  going  to  his  funeral,"  she  thought, 
"and  yet  I  am  walking  as  if  I  were  out  for 
pleasure, —  unfeeling,  dull.  He  is  dead!" 
and  there  was  a  rumbling  within  her,  "The 
only  man  who  did  not  run  away  from  poor 
me!" 

In  vain.  The  words  resounded  in  her 
soul,  but  only  distantly. 

"How  wretched  I  am,  how  dull  I  am!" 
she  accused  herself.  "Who  could  forget  so 
soon?  And  how  can  one  forget  at  all?" 
But  her  soul  could  not  enter  into  the  circle 
of  pain,  from  which  she  had  escaped.  With 
blinking  eyes  she  looked  about  her  in  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  breathing  freely,  and  she 
went  on  dreaming,  God  only  knows 
what.  .  .  . 

Lucy    reached    the    small    bridge    that 


224  MAGDALEN 

spanned  the  clear,  noisy  stream.  Beyond  it 
the  road  branched  in  three  directions.  Lucy 
stood  undecided,  and  looked  around  her. 

A  sacristan  and  a  young  priest  and  minis- 
trants  with  lamps  passed  by.  They  crossed 
the  bridge,  and  turned  to  walk  along  the 
stream. 

She  followed  them. 

It  was  in  the  quarter  of  low  houses,  cov- 
ered with  shingles  or  straw,  the  small  win- 
dows frequently  pasted  up  with  paper.  On 
the  threshold  stood  slatternly,  wizened 
women  gossiping  about  their  husbands, 
their  sorrows,  their  hopes.  Half-naked, 
dirty  children  were  wallowing  in  the  dust  of 
the  road.  White  geese,  a  dirty  pig,  and  a 
flock  of  chickens  were  running  about  noisily. 
There  was  an  intense  odor  of  farm-yards  and 
filth.  This  village  quarter  is  part  of  the 
town,  yet  separated  from  it.  It  has  its  own 
life,  its  own  elders,  its  distinct  interests,  and 
does  not  busy  itself  concerning  the  town, 
just  as  the  town  pays  no  attention  to  it. 


MAGDALEN  225 

Only  before  the  elections,  all  kinds  of  people 
come  with  all  kinds  of  speeches,  act  neigh- 
borly to  them,  harangue  them,  urge  them, 
and  bribe  them, —  then  there  is  the  election, 
and  everything  is  quiet  again. 

The  ministrants,  with  the  priest,  went  in- 
side one  of  those  houses.  Lucy  stopped. 
A  crowd  of  women  in  simple  holiday  attire 
were  waiting  outside.  They  were  convers- 
ing in  an  undertone.  A  few  of  them  meas- 
ured Lucy  with  an  eye  of  mere  curiosity. 

The  priest's  voice  was  heard  within  .  .  . 
then  the  clear  voices  of  the  ministrants  .  .  . 
a  short  song  .  .  .  loud  sobbing  .  .  .  the 
women  piously  crossed  themselves  ...  a 
mass  of  people  issued  from  the  door  .  .  . 
musicians,  the  choir,  the  sacristan,  the  priest, 
the  ministrants  .  .  .  then  the  coffin,  a  black, 
shining  coffin.  .  .  . 

A  small  bell  began  to  ring  in  the  cemetery 
chapel.  The  musicians  played  a  funeral 
march. 

Behind  the  coffin  walked  a  small,  decrepit 


226  MAGDALEN 

old  woman.  Her  eyes  were  red,  but  dry. 
She  scanned  the  crowd.  For  a  moment  a 
sad  happiness  flashed  over  her  face,  and  then 
she  turned  her  head  away. 

Lucy  mechanically  joined  the  procession, 
and  kept  looking  in  one  direction,  where  be- 
hind the  coffin  a  bent  head  in  a  black  ker- 
chief was  trembling.  Slowly  a  gloomy  sad- 
ness stole  into  her  melancholy  soul.  The 
funeral  march  sounded  so  full  of  lament  and 
chiding.  All  the  bowed  heads  in  front  of 
her  were  nodding  in  even  measure.  It 
looked  as  though  the  black  coffin  were  swim- 
ming over  them.  The  golden,  burning  sun 
was  reflected  on  two  of  its  surfaces. 

"So  there  he  lies,"  a  painful  inner  voice 
whispered  to  her;  "his  eyes  are  now  forever 
closed  .  .  .  his  hands  are  crossed  on  his 
breast.  .  .  .  The  end  .  .  .  the  end.  ...  It 
is  only  two  weeks  ago  that  you  kissed  that 
head  in  the  park.  .  .  .  Now  it  is  cold  .  .  . 
as  if  of  wax  .  .  ."  (a  light  chill  passed  over 
her  back)  .  .  .  "So  you  are  alone,"  the 


MAGDALEN  227 

voice  continued  to  whisper,  "alone  .  .  . 
alone.  .  .  ." 

The  funeral  march  pierced  her  heart  with 
its  lamenting  tones.  Her  own  sorrow  lay 
as  a  weight  on  her  drooping  head,  and  she 
softly  sobbed  at  those  tones. 

"What  will  you  do  with  your  life?  Why 
live  at  all?  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Why? 

As  if  her  soul  were  secretly  reviewing  all 
the  impressions  of  the  past  days,  as  if  it 
had  now  placed  before  her  eyes  their  crush- 
ing result,  Lucy  whispered  aloud:  "The 
end!" 

The  old  aunt  with  her  white  head  and  those 
kindly  eyes  now  rose  before  her  mind.  Lucy 
sighed,  and  felt  as  though  she  were  once 
more  grasping  the  trembling,  sere  fingers. 
But  hundreds  of  strange,  furious  hands  drew 
her  back, —  the  picture  of  the  aunt  became 
more  indistinct,  and  disappeared.  .  .  . 
Again  she  was  alone  .  .  .  strange  hands 
were  stirring  .  .  .  they  were  tearing  her 
garments  .  .  .  they  were  drawing  her  down- 


228  MAGDALEN 

wards,  and  a  stern  voice  kept  repeating  stub- 
bornly: "The  end,  the  end!  .  .  ." 

The  procession  turned  into  the  cemetery 
gate.  The  melancholy,  sobbing  bell  rang  in 
the  chapel,  as  if  in  greeting.  .  .  .  The  mu- 
sicians continued  playing,  and  with  their  mu- 
sic mingled  the  funeral  singing. 

The  coffin  entered  the  cemetery  .  .  .  the 
singing,  and  the  music  stopped.  .  .  . 

The  procession  slowly  ascended  a  narrow 
path  between  the  graves. 

Lucy  saw  the  tombstones,  the  gilt  inscrip- 
tions, and  the  crosses,  the  palings,  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  lamps,  here  and  there  a  dry  grey 
wreath, —  her  veil  threw  a  network  of  small 
black  lines, —  but  inwardly  she  did  not  un- 
derstand anything  of  what  was  going  on. 

The  funereal  odor  of  cemetery  flowers 
blended  with  the  penetrating  aroma  of  the 
incense  and  loam, —  it  seemed  to  Lucy  that 
it  was  the  breath  of  her  soul.  .  .  . 

The  procession  stopped. 


MAGDALEN  229 

The  black  coffin  was  put  on  the  ground. 
The  priest  mechanically  read  over  it  the 
Latin  prayer.  "My  child!  My  child!"  a 
hoarse,  heart-rending  woman's  voice  bitterly 
lamented,  ending  in  pitiful  sobs. 

"The  end,  the  end!"  whispered  Lucy. 

The  thud  of  the  clod  against  the  boards  of 
the  coffin  fell  heavily  upon  her  soul.  A  fe- 
verish longing  to  see  him  once  more  took  pos- 
session of  her,  and  she  pushed  her  way  to  the 
grave,  and  looked  down:  the  dark  clay  was 
striking  against  his  coffin  ...  he  disap-» 
peared  forever,  forever,  forever.  .  .  . 

On  the  other  side  a  few  women  were  sup- 
porting his  old  mother.  She  did  not  stop 
sobbing.  .  .  .  The  shovel  went  from  hand 
to  hand  .  .  .  each  lifted  with  it  a  little  clay 
and  threw  it  down  into  the  grave.  ...  It 
resounded  against  the  coffin.  Others  threw 
in  some  clay  with  their  hands.  A  woman 
handed  the  shovel  to  Lucy:  "Do  you  want 
it?"  she  asked  her  timidly. 


230  MAGDALEN 

Lucy  shuddered,  and  filled  the  shovel,  but 
the  clay  fell  from  it,  and  only  a  stone  rattled 
down.  She  stepped  aside. 

Then  there  was  a  rattling  in  the  grave, — 
the  old  grave-digger  was  peacefully  finishing 
the  work.  The  people  went  away,  some 
home,  some  to  visit  other  graves.  Only  the 
old  mother  remained,  looking  with  glassy 
eyes  at  the  growing  heap.  She  no  longer 
sobbed.  Her  drooping  hands  were  clasped, 
and  her  head  bent  low. 

The  grave  was  filled.  Lucy  heard  the 
grave-digger  say:  "To-morrow,  Mother,  I 
will  put  the  sod  over  it,  and  we  will  surround 
the  grave  with  stones,  and  you  may  bring 
some  flowers." 

The  old  woman  unconsciously  and  gently 
nodded  her  head. 

Lucy  watched  the  expression  of  her  face. 
Her  brow,  her  temples,  her  cheekbones  re- 
minded her  of  the  dead  man. 

As  if  feeling  that  glance  of  hers,  the 
old  woman  lifted  her  eyes.  Wonderment 


MAGDALEN  231 

flashed  in  them,  but,  as  if  reminded  of  some- 
thing, she  walked  up  to  her, —  and  then  she 
stopped,  timid  and  undecided.  It  occurred 
to  Lucy  that  she  had  something  to  tell  her 
.  .  .  perhaps  to  thank  her,  or  perhaps  to 
give  some  message  from  the  dead  man,  but 
the  woman  only  turned  back  to  the  grave, 
where  she  knelt  down  and  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross  .  .  .  then  she  arose  again.  .  .  . 
She  looked  at  Lucy  once  more, —  again  her 
eyes  flashed  and  something  hovered  upon 
her  lips, —  but,  as  before,  she  turned  timidly 
away,  and  slowly  walked  out  of  the  ceme- 
tery. 

Lucy  knelt  down  at  the  head  of  the  grave. 
Then,  at  last,  a  sea  of  tears  coursed  down 
from  her  feverish  eyes  .  .  .  they  kept  on 
flowing  as  if  her  whole  soul  had  been  changed 
into  tears. 

Then  all  within  her  became  quiet  again, — 
the  swollen  black  waves  slowly  subsided, — 
they  only  mourned  like  a  melancholy  tune 
for  something  forever  lost.  .  .  . 


232  MAGDALEN 

She  arose,  dried  her  tears,  shook  out  her 
dress,  opened  her  black  sunshade,  and  walked 
towards  the  gate  between  a  row  of  flowery 
graves.  She  went  back  by  the  dusty  road 
over  which  she  had  come,  and  then  across 
the  bridge  and  by  the  street  that  led  to  the 
common.  She  protected  herself  with  the 
parasol,  more  against  the  eyes  of  the  people 
than  against  the  burning  sun.  She  passed 
the  common  and  walked  along  the  streets. 
.  .  .  Everywhere  was  life,  and  everywhere 
warmth  and  joy,  but  Lucy  saw  it  all  through 
a  mist,  as  though  from  a  distance.  .  .  . 

In  the  yard  of  the  estate  stood  a  dusty 
coach.  The  driver  was  leading  away  his 
sweating,  glistening  horses. 

Lucy  entered  the  house. 

Jiff  was  walking  up  and  down  with  long, 
heavy  steps.  He  was  rubbing  his  hands. 
He  was  excited,  and  his  dark  eyes  were 
sparkling.  He  looked  at  Lucy,  as  if  taking 
special  notice  of  her  black  dress,  that  fa- 


MAGDALEN  233 

miliar  black  garment  of  hers,  and  he  stepped 
close  to  her,  and  snapped  his  fingers : 

"I  shall  be  elected,  I  shall  be  elected," 
he  said  proudly.  "A  tremendous  success 
all  around,  the  voters  were  intoxicated 
with  my  speech,"  and  he  looked  strangely 
into  her  eyes  that  were  still  moist  with 
tears. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  hand.  Jin  pressed  it  hard. 

"But  where  is  aunty?"  she  asked,  freeing 
her  hand. 

"She  is  still  asleep,  I  suppose." 

"Excuse  me,  I  will  change  my  dress." 
And  she  went  out  hurriedly. 

"How  strange  he  is!"  she  thought  to  her- 
self, as  she  was  standing  in  her  room,  taking 
off  her  hat. 

The  door  creaked  behind  her.  Strong 
arms  were  thrown  around  her  waist.  O 
Lord,  it  was  Jiff.  He  was  red  in  the  face 
and  said  softly:  "Darling,  you  are  mine, 
mine,  mine!" 


234  MAGDALEN 

His  burning  lips  kissed  her,  his  trembling 
hand  began  to  unfasten  her  waist. 

Her  head  whirled  as  if  some  one  had  struck 
her.  A  feeling  of  shame  seized  her,  as  if 
her  own  brother  had  laid  his  hands  upon  her. 
She  pushed  him  away  with  all  her  strength, 
so  that  he  tottered.  She  sobbed  aloud,  as 
she  stood  before  him,  and  for  a  moment 
closed  her  eyes,  while  to  her  lips  rushed 
torrents  of  accusations  and  bitter  words, 
not  only  against  him,  but  against  every- 
body, against  all  those  virtuous  and  decent 
people, —  but  she  did  not  speak,  for  fear 
of  bursting  into  tears  at  her  very  first 
word. 

She  dropped  her  hands,  and  looked  up  at 
him. 

He  stood  there,  angry  and  stubborn,  fix- 
ing his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"The  end,"  Lucy  whispered,  more  to  her- 
self than  to  him.  "It  is  the  end." 

"A  stagey,  virtuous  scene!  It  is  rather 
too  old,  too  insipid, —  one  would  not  have  ex- 


MAGDALEN  235 

pected  it  from  you,"  he  said  angrily,  with 
teeth  clenched. 

"You  see,  Jiff,  there  ...  in  that  house," 
she  spoke  with  difficulty,  "then  .  .  .  you 
know  .  .  .  that  night  when  you  went  away 
.  .  .  you  only  gave  me  your  hand  .  .  .  then 
I  was  thankful  to  you  .  .  .  with  all  my 
heart.  .  .  ." 

Lucy  stopped.  Something  told  her  that 
she  had  intended  to  tell  him  something  else, 
—  what  it  was,  she  did  not  know  herself, — 
she  only  motioned  with  her  hand : 

"I  do  not  blame  you  for  anything  .  .  . 
fate  has  decided  otherwise  .  .  ."  and  again 
she  was  silent. 

"God  be  with  you,"  she  said  half  aloud,  as 
she  quickly  took  up  her  hat. 

Jif  i  saw  the  situation  in  a  flash :  she  would 
actually  go  away,  he  had  driven  her  away. 
...  A  touch  of  pity  passed  through  his  soul, 
and  again  there  flashed  through  his  mind :  the 
elections  .  .  .  the  future  career  .  .  .  the 
ijs  Gazette  .  .  .  the  tax  collector's 


236  MAGDALEN 

wife  .  .  .  her  blonde  daughter, —  let  her  go 
...  just  as  well  ...  it  will  at  least  untie 
the  knot,  and  henceforth  all  that  foolishness 
must  stop  ...  he  turned  around,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room  without  a  word. 

Lucy  hurriedly  put  on  her  hat,  and  went 
out,  walking  on  tiptoe.  She  ran  down  the 
steps  like  an  arrow,  then  through  the  yard, 
and  out,  beyond  the  gate.  .  .  . 


XII 

OVER  a  long  and  narrow  ridge,  between 
two  fields  of  grain,  her  foot  slipping 
at  every  step,  Lucy  hurried,  timidly,  like  a 
hunted  deer.  The  waving  ears  beat  against 
her  breast,  the  monotonous  chirping  of  the 
crickets  sounded  about  her  like  the  ticking 
of  a  hundred  clocks.  In  the  azure  height 
unseen  larks  poured  forth  their  clear  tones; 
the  air  was  astir  with  those  dry  odors  which 
rise  from  the  fields  in  July. 

Around  her  were  fields,  broad  fields. 
Their  surfaces  rippled  in  light  waves,  like  a 
pale-yellow  sea. 

Lucy  was  hastening  on  in  a  dull,  whirling 
stupor.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  there 
were  an  endless,  swollen,  terrible  expanse 
in  her  soul.  Somebody  within  it  called  out 
again:  "The  end!"  That  word  hovered 

237 


238  MAGDALEN 

about  like  a  bird  gone  astray.  "The  end 
.  .  .  the  end.  ..."  Her  lips  now  and  then 
whispered  it  aloud  like  an  empty  echo.  She 
sped  on  mechanically,  without  thinking,  al- 
ways onward,  onward,  onward.  .  .  . 

The  narrow  ridge  soon  came  to  an  end. 
Lucy  entered  the  highway, —  she  recognized 
it, —  it  was  the  broad  swath  of  dust  that 
ran  between  fields,  cut  through  a  few  vil- 
lages, now  went  down,  now  again  rose ;  here 
it  turned,  there  it  went  straight,  like  an  end- 
less strip  of  cloth,  and  ran  on  and  on,  until 
at  last  it  appeared  on  the  horizon  as  a 
narrow,  grey  ribbon.  The  telegraph  posts 
hummed  their  monotonous  song.  The  rat- 
tle of  wagons  as  they  passed  over  it  with  slow, 
measured  motion,  resounded  afar. —  It  was 
only  a  few  weeks  before  that  she  had  trav- 
elled over  that  road,  full  of  happiness,  to  a 
new  life.  .  . 

There  below,  behind  her,  lay  that  town. 
.  .  .  The  curved  roofs  and  the  walls  of  the 
houses  were  plainly  outlined  against  the 


MAGDALEN  239 

azure  of  the  heavens.  Here  and  there  a  win- 
dow glistened  like  a  square  of  steel.  From 
the  chimneys  a  bluish  smoke  arose  in  a  light 
cloud.  The  black  cupola  of  the  church- 
tower  with  its  golden  spire  stood  out  against 
the  sky.  The  surface  of  the  Elbe  glittered 
like  a  stream  of  mercury.  She  saw  the  ceme- 
tery, its  cypresses  and  crosses,  its  white  walls, 
and  the  fields  which  ran  straight  to  the  right 
and  left  of  it.  Long  roads,  with  avenues  of 
trees,  wound  through  them.  Towards  one 
side  of  the  town  lay  the  castle,  with  its  brown 
roof  and  colored  tower,  and  the  old  trees  in 
the  park.  Beyond  the  Elbe  were  the  grove, 
the  church  of  the  pilgrims,  the  roofs  of 
houses,  and  farther  off,  the  blue  forest  and 
the  villages  that  looked  like  a  handful  of 
bright  dots ;  and  still  farther  away  was  a  grey 
streak,  where  the  sky  met  the  undulating 
earth. 

Everything  was  merged  in  the  full  splen- 
dor of  the  sun.  The  air  was  astir  with  the 
burning  heat.  That  town  appeared  to  Lucy 


240  MAGDALEN 

like  a  hostile  being:  immovable,  firm, 
haughty,  shut  against  her,  and  driving  her 
into  the  distance. 

She  looked  once  more  into  the  castle  park. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  see  the  bench 
that  was  hidden  behind  the  branches.  She 
saw  the  whirling  points  around  that  tower, — 
a  swarm  of  swallows.  She  glanced  at  the 
cemetery:  there  ...  in  that  place  it  was 
.  .  .  that  black  grave,  covered  but  an  hour 
ago.  .  .  .  An  hour  ago?  No,  it  was  long, 
long  ago,  a  month  ago,  and  maybe  even 
more.  .  .  . 

She  recognized  the  slate  roof  of  the  manor. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  see  through 
it.  ...  The  old  lady  in  her  white  cap  was 
walking  through  the  rooms,  calling :  '  'Lucy, 
Lucy  1"  The  plaint  strongly  clutched  at  her 
heart.  .  .  .  And  did  she  know  already?  .  .  . 
She  had  probably  run  out  to  the  gate,  and 
looked  into  the  fields,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hand:  "Lucy,  Lucy!"  That  familiar 
voice  penetrated  her  soul,  and  suddenly  she 


MAGDALEN  241 

was  filled  with  anxiety  and  fear,  that  they 
would  find  her,  would  take  her  back  to  that 
hell. —  She  walked  more  firmly,  more  swiftly 
upon  that  road  towards  'Prague,  towards 
Prague.  .  .  . 

A  firm,  clear  intention  suddenly,  flashed 
through  her  soul:  there,  under  the  chain 
bridge,  the  greenish  stream  of  the  Moldau 
billowed  invitingly  .  .  .  there  it  was  quiet 
.  .  .  hardly  ever  did  any  one  pass  by.  .  .  . 
The  abrupt  side  of  the  Summer  Mountain 
rose  to  the  right.  .  .  .  There  the  din  of  the 
water  falling  from  the  dam  sounded  hollow 
and  melancholy.  One  leap  from  the  rail- 
ing,—  and  there  below,  there  would  be 
peace.  .  .  . 

She  walked  and  walked.  .  .  .  Then  she 
looked  at  herself  with  sudden  calm:  "Be- 
hold, such  is  life.  .  .  .  Thus  it  will  end,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

The  telegraph  poles,  the  young  trees  that 
cast  their  oblique  shadows  upon  the  road,  the 
heaps  of  gravel  that  lay  there  in  gravelike 


242  MAGDALEN 

mounds,  the  oblong  fields, —  the  whole  hori- 
zon began  slowly  to  recede. 

Lucy  continued  thinking  of  the  end.  She 
went  to  it  without  remorse,  without  com- 
plaining, without  resistance.  Nay,  a  certain 
weak  contentment  awoke  in  her:  she  calmly 
considered  that  she  would  live  as  purified  in 
the  memory  of  the  people  that  knew  her,  that 
the  old  lady  and  all  the  people  who  had 
wronged  her  so  much  would  think  of  her,  and 
that  Jifi  would  be  torn  by  remorse  for  to- 
day's happenings.  .  .  .  She  forgave  him, 
forgave  all.  ...  In  a  few  hours  her  lot 
would  be :  peace,  peace ! 

Proudly  she  surveyed  the  landscape:  a 
new  scene.  The  country  stretched  out  be- 
fore her  as  though  laid  on  a  table.  The  ob- 
long fields,  the  meadows,  the  villages, — 
everything  was  clad  in  colors,  and  breathed 
softly  in  the  sunshine.  .  .  .  The  crickets 

w 

chirped  all  around  her,  and  in  the  height 
above  trilled  the  skylarks,  and  the  swelling 


MAGDALEN  243 

cloudlets  hung  lightly  in  the  azure  heav- 
ens. .  .  . 

She  walked,  and  walked.  .  .  .  Her  shadow 
fell  obliquely  before  her  over  the  dusty  road, 
and  the  telegraph  poles,  the  young  trees,  the 
heaps  of  gravel,  the  fields, —  the  whole  broad 
country  slowly  receded  behind  her  and 
melted  away.  .  .  . 

She  stopped  but  once.  It  was  where  the 
old  lady  had  grasped  her  hand  and  had  said : 
"We  are  at  home  now." 

She  looked  about  her :  two  round  red  tow- 
ers rose  above  the  horizon.  Their  gilt  cupo- 
las glittered  in  the  blue  sky  like  two 
stars.  .  .  . 

And  again  she  walked.  .  .  .  There  lay 
everything.  .  .  .  There  life  would  flow  on 
steadily,  as  to-day,  so  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Jifi 
would  soon  marry,  and  the  old  lady  would 
find  some  reparation.  .  .  .  The  dead  man 
would  decay  in  the  peace  of  the  black  earth 
.  .  .  to-morrow  his  mother  would  go  to  the 


244  MAGDALEN 

cemetery  with  flowers  ...  an  unspeakable 
pang  thrilled  her  for  a  moment,  only  for  a 
moment, —  and  she  looked  again  proudly  at 
the  landscape. 

She  passed  through  a  small  village  of  low 
houses,  straw-thatched,  with  tiny  windows, 
and  small  yards  with  heaps  of  manure,  flocks 
of  chickens,  and  little  children  playing  be- 
fore the  doors.  Here  and  there  an  old  man 
was  warming  his  parched  body  in  the  heat 
of  the  sun.  A  dog  lying  upon  the  threshold 
peacefully  fixed  his  calm,  black  eyes  upon 
her, —  everything,  everything  seemed  so 
happy,  so  contented  to  her.  She  did  not  in 
the  least  begrudge  them  their  happiness, — 
what  was  the  little  sun  in  which  a  man 
warmed  himself  for  a  moment,  in  comparison 
with  what  was  in  store  for  her? 

She  walked  on  and  on.  .  .  .  Beside  the 
road  ran  an  avenue  of  shady  cherry  trees. 
Their  bark  glistened  with  a  brownish  violet 
sheen,  and  upon  their  branches  gleamed  an 
abundance  of  black  fruit. 


MAGDALEN  245 

"Where  will  my  body  be,  when  they  are 
picking  these  cherries?"  Lucy  thought 
calmly. 

At  the  left  was  a  small  pond.  The  heat  of 
the  sun  beat  upon  it  in  a  stream  of  light. 
Nearby  was  a  mill  ...  its  monotonous  click 
re-echoed  in  the  distance. 

And  again  all  was  quiet  about  her.  The 
telegraph  posts,  the  young  trees,  the  heaps 
of  gravel,  the  meadows,  and  the  fields, —  the 
whole  landscape  faded  away  behind  her.  .  .  . 
Half  an  hour  later  she  again  passed  through 
a  village.  Near  the  road  lay  a  cemetery. 
Crosses  and  trees  towered  above  the  white 
wall. 

"These  cemeteries,"  it  occurred  to  her,  "are 
all  alike  .  .  .  everywhere  they  take  away 
that  which  is  dearest  to  us.  .  .  ." 

And  she  walked  and  walked  and  thought : 
even  thus,  somewhere  in  the  mountains,  in  a 
distant  village,  her  mother's  dust  was  decay- 
ing ;  and  there,  behind  her,  they  had  this  day 
covered  up  in  the  cemetery  that  head  with  its 


246  MAGDALEN 

strange,  black  eyes.  .  .  .  In  what  clay  would 
her  body  soon  be  lying?  .  .  . 

Now  and  then  she  met  a  solitary  passer-by 
...  or  a  wagon  ...  or  a  coach.  .  .  .  Here 
and  there,  in  the  ditch,  a  traveller  slept 
soundly  upon  his  wallet.  .  .  .  Otherwise  all 
was  quiet.  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime  the  sun  was  slowly  set- 
ting behind  her  and  to  one  side.  Her 
shadow  grew  and  stretched  out,  with  long 
head  and  shaking  arms, —  like  a  monster  it 
moved  on  before  her.  Fatigue  began  to 
overcome  her.  Her  thoughts  weighed  heav- 
ily upon  her.  Faintness  made  her  close  her 
eyes,  but  she  walked  on  with  a  surer  step. 

The  country  was  changing. 

Lucy  no  longer  looked  about  her.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  road,  which  ran  on 
farther  and  farther,  grey  and  uninteresting. 
Upon  it  were  parallel  wheel  tracks  that 
seemed  to  touch  in  the  distance.  And  the 
trees  along  the  road  seemed  to  disappear  in 
monotonous  succession  from  behind,  and  the 


MAGDALEN  247 

wires  above  her  head  buzzed  in  their  melan- 
choly strain.  .  .  . 

And  again  she  passed  through  a  village. 

She  no  longer  looked  about  her.  Her  fa- 
tigue and  f  aintness  were  increasing.  In  her 
head,  her  back,  her  limbs,  she  felt  a  leaden 
weight.  Her  legs  bent  unconsciously  for- 
ward. She  heard  a  heavy,  hollow  sound  in 
her  head,  and  the  blood  beating  loudly  in 
her  temples.  The  circle  of  her  thoughts  was 
becoming  narrower,  and  hovered  about  one 
constant  point:  there,  at  the  bridge,  all 
would  be  over.  .  .  . 

And  she  walked  and  walked,  until  she 
entered  a  long,  seemingly  endless  avenue  of 
old  chestnut  trees.  They  were  in  bloom 
when  she  had  seen  them  first.  Now  it  was 
all  past.  The  green  burrs  stood  out  in  cone- 
shaped  clusters. 

The  black,  cracked  trunks  of  the  trees 
dragged  by  her. 

As  though  in  a  dream  Lucy  remembered 
how  the  old  lady,  looking  there  into  the  dis- 


248  MAGDALEN 

tance  through  her  black  lorgnette,  pointed 
out  to  her  the  villages,  the  roads,  and  the 
summits. 

She  looked  about  her  with  dim  eyes. 
There  they  were,  Jested,  Hip,  and  Mile- 
sovka.  They  stood  out  a  dull  blue  against 
the  ruddy  sky. 

And  the  trees,  black  and  monotonous, 
passed  by  and  disappeared,  one  by  one. 

A  thin  layer  of  dust  from  the  road  lay 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  she  felt  it  on  her  eye- 
lashes. "I  will  wash  it  off  in  a  few  hours," 
she  thought. 

Then  a  light  opening  appeared  in  the  dis- 
tance. She  walked  and  walked,  and  the 
opening  kept  growing. 

Finally  the  avenue  was  behind  her.  A 
broad  plain  stretched  out  before  her.  "There 
is  that  valley, —  Vysocany,  Liben,  Prague," 
she  thought. 

The  red  glow  from  the  sky  quivered  on 
the  yellow  waves  of  the  grain  fields.  Here 
were  the  acres  of  rape,  in  which  late  blooms 


MAGDALEN  249 

shone  like  a  shower  of  ducats.  The  straight- 
rowed  acres  of  beets  displayed  their  bright 
green  hue  by  the  side  of  dark  patches  of  po- 
tatoes. The  figures  of  men  who  were  has- 
tening home  from  their  work  were  sharply 
outlined  against  the  greyish-blue  heavens. 

She  walked  and  walked.  The  road  de- 
scended into  the  valley. 

On  the  right  lay  Prague,  shrouded  in  grey 
smoke, —  like  some  phantom  in  a  weird  story. 
Hradcany  threateningly  towered  to  the  sky, 
and  against  it  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun 
looked  like  pools  of  fresh  blood. 

Accidentally  she  glanced  down  at  the  grey 
sea.  "There,  in  that  place  must  be  the 
bridge,"  the  thought  flashed  through  her 
numbed  brain. 

She  began  to  descend. 

She  paid  no  heed  to  anything.  Her  ex- 
hausted body  moved  onward  like  a  machine. 
The  noise  in  her  head  sounded  more  hollow 
...  at  times  she  thought  it  was  the  rush  of 
the  water.  As  if  in  a  dream  she  passed 


250  MAGDALEN 

by  a  sugar  refinery,  crossed  the  glistening 
railway  track,  and  walked  through  Vyso- 
cany. 

The  road  was  now  filled  with  life, —  men 
and  women  were  hastening  home  from  their 
work. 

Bits  of  low  conversation  about  every-day 
cares  and  interests  reached  her  ear,  but  she 
did  not  hear  them.  .  .  .  She  crossed  Liben, 
and  went  through  the  row  of  acacias  past  the 
Home  of  the  Invalids.  The  tinkling  of  the 
tramway  bells,  the  clatter  of  the  city  was  al- 
ready audible.  .  .  . 

She  entered  Karlin.  She  felt  the  pave- 
ment under  her  feet.  The  air  was  heavier 
here,  and,  full  of  heat  and  stifling  exhala- 
tions, it  breathed  upon  her.  Her  faintness 
suddenly  disappeared.  She  took  a  deep 
breath,  and  looked  around  her.  The  street 
was  noisy  with  men  and  vehicles.  .  .  .  From 
the  shops  streamed  a  yellow  light  that 
gleamed  at  a  distance,  as  though  it  were  still 
in  vain  struggling  with  the  daylight. 


MAGDALEN  251 

The  nearness  of  the  whirling  life  buoyed 
her.  She  hastened  on. 

"Here,  these  people  are  walking  about, 
laughing  and  talking,"  she  thought;  "each 
has  his  little  world,  and  in  it  his  joys,  his 
cares,  his  sorrows.  .  .  .  This  their  world  will 
disappear  with  them.  No  one  else  will  in- 
herit it, —  they  will  all  live  their  .  .  .  what 
was  it  he  said  that  time  in  the  park?"  That 
sentence  had  never  before  occurred  to  her, — 
indeed,  she  had  not  heard  it  that  time, —  the 
words  only  fell  accidentally  upon  her  soul, 
and  that  soul  had  found  them  this  day: 
'  *  And  that  life !  It  is  something  tempo- 
rary, and  it  does  not  make  much  difference 
how  we  go  through  it.'  Thus  we  all  con- 
tinue to  live  our  temporary  lives.  .  .  ." 

She  walked  and  walked.  .  .  .  The  streets 
dinned  and  clattered.  .  .  .  She  crossed  Kar- 
lin  and  Pof  ic. 

She  was  thinking  how  it  would  all  be  in  a 
few  minutes :  the  greenish  water  would  enter 
her  mouth,  her  ears,  her  nose  .  .  .  the  whirl- 


252  MAGDALEN 

ing  waters  would  carry  her  down,  and  then 
far  away,  somewhere  near  the  dam. 

Fright  and  terror  chilled  her  bones. 

"This  is  something  temporary,  something 
temporary,  and  it  does  not  make  much  differ- 
ence how  I  end  it,"  she  thought,  strengthen- 
ing herself. 

"Oh,  that  terrible,  terrible  water!"  And 
again  she  was  frightened. 

The  streets  crossed  each  other,  and  every- 
where, everywhere  that  life.  .  .  . 

"See  their  faces,  forms,  voices,  motions, 
and  dresses,  their  cares  and  their  joys, —  and 
they  live,  they  live,  they  live.  .  .  ." 

Then  she  entered  the  tangle  of  narrow 
streets. 

Moisture  is  borne  through  the  air ;  ill  odors, 
growing  more  intense,  are  wafted  through 
the  short,  narrow,  crooked  streets.  The 
pulse  of  life  is  beating  here  in  more  boister- 
ous measure.  A  variegated  crowd  of  peo- 
ple surges  past  the  old,  grey  houses,  talking, 
laughing,  jesting;  laborers  who  come  in  their 


MAGDALEN  253 

grimy  clothes  after  having  received  their 
pay;  soldiers  and  loiterers;  factory  girls 
with  yellow  faces,  their  hair  combed  over 
their  brows;  prattling  domestics  vociferate 
around  the  water  basin;  women,  with  their 
pale  babes  in  their  arms,  are  standing  at  the 
doors  of  the  houses,  conversing  in  shrill 
voices ;  in  the  basement  taverns  the  gaslight, 
subdued  through  the  red  curtains,  already 
flickers,  and  here  and  there  are  heard  the 
sounds  of  the  accordion.  The  pulse  of  life 
is  beating  strong. 

Lucy  stopped.  .  .  .  At  a  corner  rose  a 
freshly  whitewashed  house;  it  towered  by  a 
whole  story  above  the  red  roofs  of  its  neigh- 
bors. The  blinds  were  drawn  in  all  the  win- 
dows; a  dead  silence  pervaded  the  place, — 
she  recognized  it.  ... 

She  had  only  a  few  hundred  steps  more  to 
go  before  she  would  reach  the  water.  .  .  . 
Her  legs  were  powerless  and  began  to  trem- 
ble, and  her  blood  boiled  furiously.  Red  cir- 
cles flitted  before  her  eyes  and  swam  up- 


254  MAGDALEN 

wards.  She  summoned  all  her  strength,  and 
walked  the  few  hundred  steps.  She  stopped 
again. 

What  quiet  reigned  all  around  her! 
Only  the  water  down  there  spoke  mysteri- 
ously. 

The  bright  walls  of  the  Concert  Hall  stood 
at  the  right.  Before  her  the  bridge  stretched 
out  its  grey  arm.  Beyond,  the  river  Hrad- 
cany  towered  mightily  against  the  pure, 
golden  sky. 

The  water  below  roared  and  roared. 

She  went  as  far  as  the  railing.  .  .  .  To- 
ward the  left,  in  the  park,  were  a  few  people, 
—  lovers,  tenderly  embracing  each  other, — 
perhaps  they  would  not  notice  her.  .  .  . 

How  ghastly  and  weird  the  water  of  the 
dam  roared  there  at  one  side! 

How  the  greenish  monster  rushed  against 
the  pier  of  the  bridge!  How  cold  was  the 
air  that  watery  mass  exhaled! 

A  terror,  such  as  she  had  never  before  felt, 
clutched  at  her  throat.  Her  legs  refused  to 


MAGDALEN  255 

obey  .  .  .  she  was  about  to  fall  .  .  .  red 
circles  flew  before  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

Her  soul  was  suddenly  cut  in  two:  and 
yet  both  halves  were  living,  and  discussing 
with  each  other.  The  one  seemed  to  be 
wringing  its  white  hands:  "To  live,  oh,  to 
live !  After  all,  this  lif e  is  beautiful !  After 
all,  we  live  but  once!  After  all,  it  is  life!" 

And  the  other  spoke  in  a  hollow  voice: 
"Down,  down!  You  must  die!" 

And  again  the  first :  "To  live,  oh,  to  live ! 
You  cannot  die,  you  have  not  the  strength, 
and  you  have  no  cause  to  die!" 

And  the  second:  "Down,  down!"  but  it 
whispered  it  so  sadly,  and  in  so  trembling  a 
voice,  that  it  was  painful  to  hear  it. 

Cold  perspiration  in  small  pearls  dropped 
down  her  brow.  Her  knees  grew  weak  from 
fear.  Terror  clutched  her  white  throat  still 
tighter.  Her  glassy  eyes  bulged  out  as  she 
looked  down  into  the  ghastly  green, —  and 
the  two  halves  of  her  soul  continued  strug- 
gling with  each  other.  .  .  . 


256  MAGDALEN 

Lucy  suddenly  motioned  with  her  hand, 
and  faintly  whispered:  "Perhaps  to-mor- 
row. .  .  ." 

And  she  turned  back  .  .  .  she  dragged 
herself  hurriedly  away,  as  if  crushed.  Her 
head  drooped  to  one  side,  like  a  flower  half 
plucked.  Her  hands  hung  down  as  though 
dead.  Her  sunshade  struck  the  stones  of 
the  pavement  with  its  point.  She  walked 
along  in  her  black  dress  which  daintily  veiled 
her  breast,  and  walked  back  into  the  gay 
whirlpool  of  men.  She  walked  slowly,  as 
though  going  to  the  gallows.  She  went  only 
a  few  hundred  steps  ...  to  the  house  where 
the  blinds  were  drawn  in  all  the  windows 
.  .  .  she  raised  her  hand  .  .  .  she  pressed 
the  handle  of  the  door  .  .  .  she  opened 
it.  ... 

Eight  o'clock.  The  bells  are  tolling  over 
Prague.  The  proud  harmonious  tones  fall 
upon  this  scene  of  animation.  A  sacred  mo- 
ment. Over  this  extinct  sultry  day,  over 
this  sea  of  red  roofs,  over  this  varied  mass  of 


MAGDALEN  257 

spires,  over  this  grey  that  is  flooding  the  tan- 
gle of  sweltering  streets, —  over  all  that  is 
there  in  motion,  over  its  empty  pleasure,  its 
sorrow,  pride,  misery,  passion,  hypocrisy, 
and  love,  over  this  weak,  puny,  ephemeral 
human  "ego,"  the  hollow  brass  sends  forth 
into  the  vault  of  heaven  its  A  ve  Maria! 


THE  END 


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